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HELENORE; 



THE FORTUNATE SHEPHERDESS. 



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PREFACE. 




IJIKE every other " Man of the Mearns," as 
well as of Angus and Aberdeenshire, the 
editor became acquainted with Lindy and 
JVory, as Helenore is familiarly called, from hearing 
quotations of its proverbial lines, and recitations of 
its descriptive passages, in his very childhood. As he 
advanced in years he enjoyed the pleasure of reading 
it for himself, sympathising with Lindy in his fall, 
and little dreaming that the depredations of the Ket- 
trin were made in a neighbouring county, and at a 
comparatively recent period. Becoming gradually 
acquainted with the literature of his country, he 
assigned to Ross a high place among those sons of 
song who have done honour to their " mither 
leed." On examining different editions of the 
work, however, he was shocked at the great injus- 
tice that had been done the author by the inaccuracy 
with which, from the very first, it had been printed; 
and the wish naturally arose in his mind that he 



iv Preface. 

might have an opportunity of superintending a new- 
edition of Ross's poems. The knowledge of this 
desire extended from one friend to another, till 
at last he had the pleasure of receiving a request 
from a metropolitan printer to prepare a cor- 
rect edition of the " Fortunate Shepherdess," 
together with some account of the author. This 
request immediately suggested the propriety of 
visiting the scene of Ross's protracted labours, and 
of inquiring into the fate of the numerous manu- 
scripts that he had submitted to the judgment of 
Dr Beattie. The result of that visit, and of those 
researches, prosecuted during a season of convales- 
cence, is now submitted to the public. 

With regard to the text of the present edition, it 
may be necessary to premise, that two editions 
only were published during the life of the author. 
The former of these was printed by Francis Douglas 
at Aberdeen, 1768; and it is evident that no 
proof-sheet had ever found its way to Lochlee for 
the author's corrections ; for we have Savilians for 
Sevitians, standing tor stending^z/^/z/yfor maughty, 
eaten for etnach, cauls for cauts, and many other 
blunders that evidently obscure, if not destroy, 
the sense. The second edition, which did not 
make its appearance till 1778, was very neatly 
printed by J. Chalmers and Co., Aberdeen, and 
exhibits the remarkable pains that the author had 



Preface. v 

bestowed in the interval to improve his work ; for, 
if it would be exaggeration to say there is not a 
line, it would be none to assert that there is not a 
page to which the hand of correction had not been 
freely applied. These corrections are for the most 
part decided improvements : the lines are rendered 
more vigorous ; some provincialisms are rejected ; 
several couplets in different parts are omitted, and 
others are inserted; Helenore is adopted as the 
principal title ; Dr Beattie's complimentary verses 
are prefixed, but without his name ; the " Adver- 
tisement " of the former edition is omitted ; three 
of the songs are rejected ; the division into three 
cantos is discarded ; and a limited glossary is 
added. The proof-sheets of this edition, however, 
had no more visited Lochlee than those of the 
former ; and, consequently, we still meet with im- 
portant typographical errors, such as stand for fand, 
li?iking for liking, argue for urge, &c. ; so that, 
although this edition is facile pri?iceps, the editor 
could not, as he had originally intended, repro- 
duce it verbati??i. The third edition was printed 
by J. Boyle, Aberdeen, 1789 ; and, although it is 
said to be corrected, the number of typographical 
errors is increased ; and hellier, in the glossary, is 
improperly explained a whole year, instead of half 
a year. The fourth edition, which he has not 
seen, was produced in 1791. The fifth was printed 



vi Preface. 

by Burnett and Rettie, Aberdeen, 1796. It is 
printed on larger type ; the dedication at the 
beginning, and the songs and glossary at the end 
are omitted; but instead of these the reader is 
favoured with " Rural Love," by Francis Douglas ; 
the " Farmer's Ha'," by Dr Keith; and "Will and 
Jean," by Hector M'Neil. There is also a pecu- 
liarity in this edition, which has been followed by 
several others ; from the beginning to the one hun- 
dred and sixty-third line the first edition is followed, 
and thenceforward the second. Was this in order 
to escape the consequences of pirating the author's 
edition, which had been entered in Stationers' 
Hall ] Into the description of Flaviana, the word 
keely has been introduced instead of feckly, which 
occurs in the first three editions, and for which Sir 
Walter Scott, in his quotation of the passage, has 
substituted gently. The next edition was printed 
at Edinburgh, by John Turnbull, 1804, and is still 
more typographically incorrect than any of its pre- 
decessors. It had evidently been printed from the 
last edition ; but, by using a smaller type^ room 
was made for the Woes of War in the same num- 
ber of sheets. Passing over many cheap editions, 
we may just allude to that of David Chalmers, 
Aberdeen, 181 1, evidently a reprint of the second 
edition by his father; and consequently more accu- 
rate than its predecessors; but the glossary was 



Preface. vii 

abridged, and Wod d and Married and a was the only 
song that was retained. This brings us to the most 
pretentious edition of the work that had yet been 
published, and which has ignorantly been regarded 
as the best — for the world is still deceived with 
ornament. The Rev. Alexander Thomson, min- 
ister of Lintrathen, and grandson of the poet, 
published at Dundee, 1812, an edition of Helenore^ 
8vo, the price of which, on fine paper, boards, 
was ten shillings and sixpence. The poem alone 
was given, without either songs or glossary ; and, 
instead of being a reprint of the second edition, it 
was a mere copy of such a compound edition as 
that of 1796; perpetuating the former typographi- 
cal errors, such as riesing for riefing, ugly for hulgy, 
stand for fand, linking for liking ; and to the old 
error, the Savilians, we have to add that of Fla- 
vinia, which is consistently preserved throughout 
the poem, although the word must have been as 
familiar to the editor as his own name, and might 
have indicated its improper treatment by refusing 
to conform to the rhythm of the line. The great 
value of this edition consists in the extended bio- 
graphical sketch of the author — although it is by 
no means free from inaccuracies — and the account 
of the manners of the people in the district in 
which he lived, as well as of those in the neigh- 
bourhood. One cannot, however, but regret that 



viii Preface. 

Mr Thomson's literary taste was not as great as 
his musical, so that we might have learned at least 
as much of the poetry as of the music of the glen. 
It would have been interesting to know at what 
time " Helenore " was composed ; whether the 
leading incidents were founded on local occur- 
rences ; whether the scene, therefore, was laid in 
the neighbourhood ; what were the author's times 
or habits of composition, his mode of tuition, and 
many other particulars that might have been easily 
supplied by one who had resided in the poet's 
family for the space of eight years. 

The edition at present in the hands of the trade 
was published by Alexander Black, Brechin, 185 1, 
under the superintendence of the late Mr Laing, 
author of "Wayside Flowers." The poem was 
printed from the second edition; but the ortho- 
graphy was brought into conformity with more 
modern practice ; only six stanzas of The Rock were 
given; songs were attributed to Ross which he 
never wrote ; great liberties were taken with one 
which he did compose ; and the glossary was 
entirely omitted. 

In the present edition the Editor has closely 
followed the second, being the last which received 
the author's corrections. He has carefully cor- 
rected the typographical errors; introduced one 
passage which he thinks had been injudiciously 



Preface. ix 



rejected from the text, and preserved in foot-notes 
those lines that Ross had omitted in his careful 
revision. All the songs, with one exception, that 
Ross subjoined to his last edition of the " Shep- 
herdess" have been reprinted, and the glossary has 
been greatly extended. The sketch of the author's 
life, containing documents hitherto unpublished, 
together with the notice of his inedited works, he 
now submits with deference to the public, assured 
that candour will admit his assiduity, and piety be 
pleased to find the character of Ross more fully 
placed in its proper light. 

To the numerous friends whom he has per- 
sonally visited, and to those with whom he has cor- 
responded, in prosecuting his inquiries, he tenders 
the expression of his sincere gratitude for their 
kind hospitality and their valuable assistance. 



Aberdeen, 20th October 1865. 




CONTENTS. 



GLENESK, 

LIFE OF ROSS, . 

ROSS'S INEDITED WORKS, 

HELENORE; OR, THE FORTUNATE SHEPH] 

THE ROCK AND THE WEE PICKLE TOW, 

TO THE BEGGING WE WILL GO, 

WOO'D AND MARRIED AND A', 

WHAT AILS THE LASSES AT ME ? 

BILLET, BY JEANY GRADDEN, 

GLOSSARY, 



' 


* 




' 


• 


30 


EPH 


ERDESS, 


IOO 
127 


N % 


. 


28o 




« 


287 
294 




- 


297 




• 


299 




, 


30I 




GLENESK. 



OCHLEE, the parish to which we intend 
to conduct the courteous pilgrim, that 
he may view the home and the haunts 
of genius, lies in the north-west corner of Angus or 
Forfarshire, at the foot of that part of the Gram- 
pian range which is called the Binchinnin moun- 
tains. Running from south-west to north-east, 
they divide the Lowlands from the Highlands; 
and, from their commanding altitude, they afford 
a brilliant view of portions of the contiguous coun- 
ties. Their summits, as might be expected from 
their height, for Mount Keen rises 4000 feet above 
the level of the sea, present the familiar granite ; 
their shoulders are wrapped in gneiss and mica 
schist, while their feet are enveloped in the old 
red sandstone. There are frequent irruptions of 
trap and limestone, while galena and iron occa- 
sionally occur. Scattered on the hills lie numerous 
masses of white quartz, with crystals shooting into 
their cavities, which seem to be much prized as 
ornaments, especially for the garden walls, in many 



Gleiiesk. 



parts of the district. The hills are not generally 
either abrupt or majestic ; but, being much crowded 
together, and presenting a rounded outline, they 
appear somewhat tame in their uniform garb of 
brown indigenous heath. They afford, however, 
many a picturesque glen, cheered with its native 
burn, glowing with wild-flowers, and sending up 
the peaceful smoke from the cottage in the midst 
of a cultivated patch ; large flocks of sheep speck 
the sides of the mountains, while the deer may 
occasionally be seen against the sky-line, peering 
from their summits. The clouds, also, as they sail 
across the glen, pause for a little on the tops of the 
hills, and pay their tribute in a passing shower. 

Lochlee may be reached either from the south 
or the north. Should we start from Brechin, we 
might take occasion, when we reached Edzell, six 
miles on our way, to pay a visit to the stately ruins 
of Edzell Castle, which stand at a short distance to 
the left of the village. It was one of the residences 
of the Lindsays, who at one time possessed exten- 
sive properties throughout Forfarshire, and of whom 
much curious and important information will be 
found in Lord Lindsay's volumes, entitled " The 
Lives of the Lindsays." The Stirling Tower is 
nearly entire, and those remarkable sculptures in 
high relief that still adorn the garden walls, re- 
presenting the emblems of the planets, the sciences, 
and cardinal virtues, must have presented an un- 
paralleled instance of garden ornament in the 



Glenesk. 



seventeenth century. The civil wars may be said 
to have brought this remarkable family to ruin ; for, 
though they regained their footing, and struggled 
on for a season, it was only to sink into irretriev- 
able ruin. Their declension began from the day 
that the troops of Montrose entered Angus. The 
last Laird of Edzell was David Lindsay, whose do- 
main embraced the parishes of Edzell, Lochlee, 
Lethnot, and Navar, and whose downfall was 
hastened by his own recklessness and extrava- 
gance. His property was purchased by the Earl 
of Panmure, about 17 14, only to be forfeited next 
year, on his lordship's joining the standard of the 
Chevalier de St George, in his ill-concerted enter- 
prise to regain the throne of his forefathers. The 
property was then sold by Government to the York 
Buildings Company, from whom it was afterwards 
purchased, in 1764, by the nephew of the former 
Lord Panmure. These brief statements will tend 
to illustrate several points which will afterwards 
occur in our narrative. 

It may, however, be more agreeable to the 
visitor to start from Laurencekirk, where Ross 
taught for a time the parish school, and formed that 
acquaintance with Dr Beattie's father, which, as we 
shall afterwards find, stood him in good stead. 

Laurencekirk is not devoid of interest ; for with 
it are associated not only the name of its founder, 
Lord Gardenston, but also that of Thomas Ruddi- 
man the grammarian, who was parish schoolmaster 



Glenesk. 



here before removing to Edinburgh; and that of 
Dr Beattie, "The Minstrel," who was born here, 
as well as that of his nephew of the same name, 
who was Professor of Natural History in Marischal 
College; here, also, and in the neighbourhood, 
struggled George Menzies, a poet of no mean 
rank, who emigrated to Canada in 1833, where he 
attained a respectable place as printer and journalist, 
and died in 1847 ; neither should we overlook Mr 
Stiven, whose admirable "boxes," patronised by 
Her Majesty, have carried the name of Laurence- 
kirk both far and near. Leaving Laurencekirk, 
(formerly called Conveth,) we cross the Luther, a 
clear trouting-stream, and tributary to the North 
Esk, and, on the left, we pass Thornton Castle, 
part of which bears the date 1531, the residence 
of Alexander Crombie, Esq., with its thriving plan- 
tations and sheltering hedge-rows; and, about a 
mile to the right, but not in sight from the road, 
there lie the old burial-ground of St Catherine 
and the royal palace of Kincardine, once the 
county town, where Kenneth III. resided, and is 
said to have been murdered by Finella, and where 
the draft of Baliol's resignation of his crown is also 
said to have been drawn up. Pursuing our jour- 
ney, we have next a full view of Fasque House, 
the residence of Sir Thomas Gladstone, Bart, situ- 
ated on a rising ground, and commanding a mag- 
nificent prospect towards the south. Within half 
a mile of the village, we pass Fettercairn House, 



Glenesk. 5 



the seat of Sir John Stuart Forbes, Bart., grandson 
of the author of the " Life of Dr Beattie," which 
was once the property of the Earl of Middleton, 
whose initials, and the date, 1666, still mark the 
oldest portion of the house. At the distance of 
five miles from Laurencekirk, we reach Fettercairn, 
a neat and cleanly village, in which Her Majesty 
and her late lamented Consort spent a night, in 
September 1861. In honour of this event, a stone 
arch, flanked by battlemented towers that rise to 
an elevation of forty-six feet, after a design by Mr 
Milne, St Andrews, to whose liberality the sub- 
scribers were greatly indebted, has been erected at 
the end of the bridge, which contributes an in- 
teresting feature to the locality. Leaving Fetter- 
cairn, which may be regarded as having super- 
seded the ancient Kincardine, we pass, on the 
right, Balbegno Castle, memorable as the resi- 
dence of Ranulphus, the king's falconer, whose 
descendants are now represented by the noble 
family of Kintore. Having passed through the 
hands of the Middletons and Ogilvies, it is now 
the property of Sir Thomas Gladstone. A little 
farther on, we pass, on our left, the remains of the 
vitrified castle of Greencairn, which is supposed 
to have been the abode of the notorious Finella ; 
but now we are overshaded by the woods of The 
Burn, the beautiful and romantic estate of Colonel 
M'Inroyj and soon, at the distance of four miles 
from Fettercairn, we join the Brechin road into 



6 Glenesk. 



Glenesk, in the vicinity of Gannochy Bridge. This 
bridge, built in 1732, and widened in 1796, unites 
the rocky banks of the North Esk by a single arch. 
The river, struggling and foaming through its rugged 
channel ; the precipitous and lofty banks, adorned 
with trees and beautified with wild-flowers, produce 
a scene in no small degree picturesque ; while the 
tale of the ghostly visitor, whose humanity urged 
the erection of the bridge, and whose engineering 
skill pointed out its proper site, adds the necessary 
ingredient to render the whole romantic. 

Turning our faces towards the north, and skirt- 
ing the policies of The Burn, we begin to perceive 
that we are winding ourselves into the bosom of 
those mountains which, at a distance, appeared as 
an effectual barrier against all intrusion. Our 
road now necessarily lies along the banks of the 
river, from each side of which the heath-clad hills 
rise abruptly, leaving but contracted haughs on 
each side for the labour of the husbandman, who 
has evidently availed himself of every rood of land 
on which he could successfully operate. 

About seven miles beyond Gannochy Bridge, 
however, we find ourselves descending into a 
beautiful valley, formed by an unusual recession 
of the mountains. Just as we begin the descent, 
we observe, on the right hand, and at a short dis- 
tance from the road, a farm-steading, and, in its 
immediate vicinity, the remains of two of those 
stone circles, that have been called Druidical, but 



Glenesk. 



which carry us back to practices that were familiar 
to the nations of the East before the twelve stones 
were erected at Gilgal, on the banks of the Jordan. 
The place is called Colmealie, or the kirk on the 
height ; and it is to the credit of those concerned, 
that these stones have not, as in many instances 
throughout the country, been broken up for build- 
ing purposes, seeing they are the only records we 
possess of the religious or judicial customs of the 
earliest inhabitants of our country. We now cross 
the Turret, a tributary to the Esk, and, in the 
angle formed by the tributary and its principal, we 
pass, on the left, Millden, with a handsome shoot- 
ing lodge belonging to Lord Dalhousie, the ex- 
tent of the building, with its cone-roofed turrets, 
giving it quite a castellated appearance. 

The bold mountain-range, apparently terminat- 
ing on the opposite side, is called the Wirran Hill, 
which stretches away towards the west. Having 
toiled our way up the opposite side of this sweetly- 
sheltered valley, "where the bright waters meet," 
we get upon a high level ; and, in looking around, 
we are struck with a conical protuberance, placed 
on the brow of a hill, looming at a considerable 
distance before us toward our left, suggesting to 
the fancy the horn of the rhinoceros or the tan- 
tour of a Druse maiden. That is Craigmaskeldie, 
rising from the western end of the Loch, which is 
to form the terminus of our journey. Although it 
is twelve miles distant, yet the mind is cheered 



Glenesk. 



by a glimpse of anything bearing so close a relation 
to Lochlee. 

We are now moving along the side of the hill of 
Modlach, on the top of which stands the Masons' 
Tower, which for some time has been attracting 
our attention. The brethren of " the mystic tie " 
walk to it on St Andrew's day and other great 
occasions, when it is the scene of no small hilarity : 
but, like every earthly object, it has its dark as well 
as its bright side ; for in its vicinity, when the road 
went over the hill, the Rev. Mr Jolly, who had 
been celebrating a marriage at Mill Aucheen, and 
Miss Catherine Douglas, who had accompanied 
him, were overtaken, on their return to Tarfside, 
by a snow-storm, in January 1827, in which they 
lost their way, and wandered through the dismal 
night, till the lady expired in her companion's 
arms, and he himself, when found, was so much 
exhausted, that he must in a short time have shared 
the fate of his feebler companion. 

Our way is now agreeably fringed with the grace- 
ful birch and the rowan, in all the richness of its 
creamy flowers, more especially when we reach the 
Birks of Ardoch, among which, upon the brae-side 
on our right, is snugly ensconced the cottage ap- 
propriately called The Retreat, which was built by 
the late Admiral Wemyss, and is now occupied 
as a shooting lodge. A little farther on, but on 
the opposite side, we reach the well-sheltered and 
pleasantly-situated Free Church manse; then the 



Glenesk. 



Free Church itself, with its handsome tower, form- 
ing a conspicuous and suggestive feature in the 
landscape ; and now, on the right hand, we come 
to the new and rather ornamental buildings compre- 
hending the parish school and the teacher's house, 
forming a striking contrast to the hut appropriated 
to both these purposes at the end of last century. 
Close by, and on the same side, we find a white 
two-storied house, the upper floor of which is the 
St Andrew's Mason Lodge, and the lower floor was 
occupied as a school, under the superintendence of 
the Society for the Propagation of Christian Know- 
ledge, so early as 1760. On the opposite side of 
the road there are a few neat cottages, forming the 
village of Tarfside — the only one in the parish. 
Here we find the post-office, the rendezvous of the 
Brechin carrier, together with the abodes of those 
handicraftsmen that are necessary for the con- 
venience of every rural district ; and here, we are 
happy to say, we find not the sign of the taverner, 
alluring to the degradation of character, the ruin 
of morals, the fomentation of quarrels, the perpe- 
tration of crime, and hostility to every good and 
benevolent enterprise. Here we get a glimpse of 
the neat Episcopal chapel, parsonage, and school 
on the right, as we cross the Tarf, a little above 
its junction with the Esk. This is a true Highland 
torrent, rising with great rapidity, and coming down 
with vast impetuosity. Hence in 1829 it over- 
flowed its banks, which look so steep, flooded the 



10 Glenesk. 



parsonage, and carried away the bridge, which was 
replaced by that which we are now crossing. Our 
attention is becoming proportionally excited, as we 
are now four miles beyond Millden, and within 
five of Lochlee. 

As we ascend the rising ground, we pass a 
labourer repairing the road, who was among the 
brave Highlanders in the battle of the Alma. He 
describes the effect of the first volley of the Rus- 
sians, as the Highlanders were pushing up the 
steep, as a perfect " shower of feathers " from their 
bonnets. A ball perforated his own bonnet, and 
lodged in a bank, from which he afterwards ex- 
tracted it, and brought it home. But for the waving 
plumes of the bonnets, the enemy might have 
aimed lower, and a loss of brains, instead of fea- 
thers, would have been the inevitable result. This 
reference to war naturally leads us to point out the 
" gray cairns " that are so numerous along the side 
of the Rowin hill on our right. Tradition repre- 
sents this as the scene of conflict between the 
followers of Bruce and those of Comyn, Earl of 
Buchan. His poet and panegyrist, Barbour, has 
taken no notice of such a battle ; but, at the time 
when it most probably took place, he states that 
the "nobill king," on his way to Inverury, 

" Towart the Munth has tane hys way, 
Rycht stoutly, and in gud aray." 

Over this Munth went the road from Fettercairn 



Glenesk. 



to Deeside, — hence called the Cairn o' Munth 
road, and alluded to by Beattie in his address to 
Ross : — 

" An' chiels will come frae yont the Cairn 
O' Munth right vousty." 

Buchanan, however, seems to countenance the tra- 
dition ; for he states that the Earl of Buchan came 
up with Bruce, and followed him into Glenesk. 
Comyn, however, perceiving that Bruce was pre- 
pared to give him battle, sought an armistice in 
order to treat of peace, although his real object 
was to obtain assistance from England. Bruce ac- 
cordingly stuck close to the enemy's forces, " haras- 
sing them now in one place, now in another -" and 
these cairns may cover those that fell previously to 
his advancing to Inverury, and gaining his decisive 
victory in 1308, when he 

" Gert hys men bryn all Bouchane, 
Frae end till end, and sparyt nane, 
And heryit thaim in sic maner, 
That eftir that weill fyfty yer, 
Men meny t the Herschip of Bowchane. " 

Through the ravine on the opposite side of the 
river tumbles the romantic Effock; and near its 
junction with the Esk stands the farm-house of 
Gleneffock, once the abode of a firm friend of our 
poet. Another mile brings us to the Branny, which 
hurries its tributary waters from our right to the 
Esk, and in the angle formed by the road and the 



1 2 Glenesk. 



stream we find the parish church of Lochlee, en- 
compassed by its graveyard, surrounded by a wall. 
A little onward, and a larger tributary, the Mark, 
comes rolling from the same side ; and in the angle 
formed by it and the Lee stands the tower of the 
old castle of Invermark. We may note, however, 
that the Lee and the Mark, which had been pre- 
viously joined by the Branny, here unite their 
waters, and become the North Esk, which now 
rolls along its rocky bed for fifty miles, when it 
falls into the sea three miles north-east of Mon- 
trose. Invermark Castle was one of the strong- 
holds of the " lichtsome Lindsays," that were once 
the most powerful family in the county, and wielded 
undivided sway in the glen. This castle would 
command the passes from the west and north, and 
check the incursions of the caterans into the glen. 
David of Edzell, ninth Earl of Crawford, died here 
in 1558; and here his grandson took refuge after 
his rencontre with the Master of Crawford on the 
streets of Edinburgh, and the " pitiful mistake " of 
killing Lord Spynie, his cousin, wno was in the 
Master's company. 

What remains of the castle is the strong tower, 
about fifty-two feet in height, and divided into four 
stories, with a turret in the south-east corner, called 
the gun-room, which commands the door ; 'but the 
rowan, instead of the banner of the Lindsays, waves 
from the crumbling wall. The grated gate, which 
it required the permission of the sovereign to erect, 



Glcnesk. 



is said to have been manufactured of iron, found 
in the neighbourhood, and smelted at a place 
called Bonny Katie, on the banks of the Tarf. 
This gate, opening upon the second floor, had 
been reached by a drawbridge, where there were 
all the usual buildings of such a habitation cluster 
ing around it; and the whole was approached 
through avenues of stately beech, which have long 
since wholly disappeared. The castle is supposed* 
to have been built in 1526, and continued to be 
inhabited till the end of the last century. After 
the forfeiture of the Earl of Panmure, it became 
the property of the York Buildings Company, when 
their agent inhabited one part of it, and, previous 
to 1750, the minister of the parish, another. 

We find on the opposite side the parish manse, 
which was erected in 1803, partly of materials 
derived from the castle, which from that time was 
left to fall before the corroding influence of the 
elements. The manse is said to occupy the site 
of the famous public-house of Drousty, which had 
been as welcome to the peaceful traveller over 
Mount Keen, as the castle was terrible to the 
hostile invader. No sooner do we hear the name 
of Drousty than we begin to repeat, — 

" An' ilka Mearns an' Angus bairn 
Thy sangs an' tales by heart will learn, 
An' chiels will come f'rae yont the Cairn 

O' Munth right vousty, 
Gin Ross will be so kind as share in 

Their pint at Drousty." 



14 Glenesk. 



In the neighbourhood we have Lochiemore, 
where the shop of the general merchant had once ' 
held out its varied commodities ; and a saying con- 
nected with it is only valuable, in as far as it not 
very darkly indicates the manners of a former age. 
When one neighbour asked another, " Well, are you 
going to the church to-morrow?" the answer would 
not unfrequently have been, "I dinna think it, 
man ; for there is neither snuff at Lochiemore, nor 
good ale at Drousty;" as they had taken occasion 
of being in the neighbourhood to replenish the 
mull before going to church, and to prove the 
goodness of the . ale at the close of the service. 
The receptacle of "snuff and tobacco" is now 
swept away, and the manse has supplanted the ale- 
house, " a consummation devoutly to be wished " 
throughout the land ! 

But we now observe on the brae before us the 
handsome shooting quarters of the Earl of Dal- 
housie, called Invermark Lodge, sheltered among 
the natural birches, and commanding an extensive 
view adown the glen. 

Looking up Glenmark, which stretches away in 
a north-westerly direction, reminds us that most of 
the roads that the visitor might take, in proceeding 
from the upper districts of Deeside into Glenesk. 
would converge in this beautiful glen. Our limited 
space compels us to restrict our description only to 
the route pursued by Her Majesty and Prince 
Albert when, together with their suite, they visited 



Glenesk. 



this interesting locality. Having driven from Bal- 
moral to the Bridge of Muick, in the neighbourhood 
of Ballater, the royal party there took ponies and 
proceeded along a cart road, used for driving peats 
from the hill of Pullach, through which, extending 
about a mile, there is scarcely a road at all, and 
then entered a bridle-road, which conducted them 
into Glenesk. About six miles and a half from 
the bridge of Muick, the road crosses the Tanner, 
wending its way to the richly-wooded glen to which 
it gives its name. The road from this point to its 
highest elevation on the shoulder of Mount Keen 
is very steep ; and there, on the boundary of his 
extensive property, Her Majesty and party were 
met by the Earl of Dalhousie, at a distance of 
seven miles and a half from the bridge of Muick. 
The road from this point is steep and rugged in its 
descent for upwards of a mile ; and hence this por- 
tion of it is called The Ladder, having the Couter- 
nach Hill on the right, and the Ladder Burn on the 
left, hastening to join the Easter Burn, whose 
united streams soon afterwards flow into the Mark. 
The party then reached Glenmark, which is now 
occupied by one of his lordship's keepers, and 
there took luncheon. Her Majesty, having taken 
a sketch of Craig Doon, which lies to the north, 
resumed her progress; but, about three hundred 
yards from the keeper's house, she was arrested by 
a beautiful fountain, which has since been sur- 
rounded by six flying buttresses, composed of 



t 6 Glenesk. 



granite, which, rising to the height of about fifteen 
feet, form by their union an imperial crown, sur- 
mounted by a cross. The structure is ten feet in 
width within the buttresses ; and a basin, formed 
of sandstone, two feet eight inches in diameter, 
into which the water flows, bears, in raised letters, 
the following legend : — 

" REST, TRAVELLER, ON THIS LONELY GREEN, 

AND DRINK, AND PRAY FOR SCOTLAND'S QUEEN." 

A black marble slab, twelve inches by nine, in- 
serted into the inside of one of the buttresses, near 
the base, is thus inscribed : — 

" HER MAJESTY QUEEN VICTORIA AND HIS ROYAL HIGH- 
NESS THE PRINCE CONSORT VISITED THIS WELL, AND 
DRANK OF ITS REFRESHING WATERS, ON THE 20TH SEP- 
TEMBER l86l, THE YEAR OF HER MAJESTY'S GREAT SOR- 
ROW." 

Resuming their journey along the beautiful banks 
of the Mark, 

" Whose water feckly on a level slade, 
Wi' little din, but couthy what it made/' 

the royal party, at the distance of three miles from 
the keeper's cottage, reached Invermark Lodge. 
Her Majesty viewed the Loch from the rising 
ground, and had no doubt learned something of 
the Poet of the Glen, as a copy of "Helenore" was 
ordered for Her Majesty's use on her return to 
Balmoral. Having visited the ruins of the castle, 



Glenesk. 1 7 



whose strategic position in commanding the moun- 
tain passes was at once perceived by His Royal 
Highness, the party at length reached the woods 
of The Burn. Having there dismounted, they tra- 
versed part of the walks on the high and rocky 
banks of the Esk, greatly admiring the romantic 
scenery they disclose ; and then, re-entering the 
highway, they pursued their journey, till, at the close 
of a delightful day, they reached the humble hos- 
telry of Fettercairn. The villagers never dreamt 
that they reposed that night so near the beloved 
"head that wears the crown;" and their conster- 
nation next morning cannot be easily conceived, 
when they found that Her Majesty had eluded the 
hearty expression of their loyalty. It soon, how- 
ever, took a more permanent form than that of 
huzzas, however loud and long. 

Resuming our walk, we soon gain a slight eleva- 
tion, and are unable to suppress the exclamation, 
" There 's the loch ! " A little farther on we pass 
on the right the old manse, built in 1750, but now 
considerably enlarged, with its garden in front, and, 
in an appropriate erection in the corner, a live 
eagle of great dimensions; right before us stand 
the ruins of the old church ; but where is Ross's 
cottage? Its ruins lie behind these walls that 
form a sheepfold, and cannot be seen from the 
road. Let us, then, first of all explore the ruins 
of the house in which our poet lived, and rhymed, 
and " taught his little school ; " of which it might 

B 



8 Glenesk. 



have once been said, as of another cottage near 
another Esk : — 

" Laigh it was ; yet sweet, though humble, 
Deck'd wi' honeysuckle round ; 
Clear below Esk's waters rumble, 
Deep glens murmuring back the sound." 

The cottage we have so much longed to see can 
scarcely be said to exhibit its roofless walls, for, 
with the exception of the western end, they are all 
in a lamentable state of dilapidation. The external 
length of the building is about forty feet, and its 
breadth sixteen feet. It had consisted of only a 
ground-floor, divided into two apartments; the one 
of which was considered sufficient for the school of 
the parish, and the other for the residence of the 
teacher! The door was in the middle, and the 
apartment in the west end was the kitchen, parlour, 
nursery, study, and bed-room of our poet. In the 
front of this room, facing the south, was a com- 
paratively large window, twenty-eight inches high, 
and twenty inches wide; and in the west end, 
towards the back of the house, was another, that 
absorbed all our interest, although it was but 
twenty inches in height and sixteen inches in 
breadth, for here stood the poet's table and chair; 
and in the sole of that little window would stand 
his Bible, together with a book or two in more im- 
mediate use, and those neatly-written, home-made 
little volumes, into which he transcribed the cor- 
rected copies of his poems, and which he would 



Glenesk. 19 



occasionally read to an intelligent friend, or lend 
among his neighbours, either for their spiritual 
benefit or their innocent amusement, according to 
the theme. Here, when raising his head from his 
manuscript in search of a rhyme, or the more har- 
monious arrangement of a line, the nearest object 
that met his eye in summer would be the honey- 
suckle that he had trained around this window; and, 
more remotely, a reach of the loch, now unruffled 
by the breeze, and reflecting the sunbeams like a 
mirror; or, at other times, lashed into fury by the 
tempest, sweeping through the mountain gorge, and 
dashing its waters against its rocky ramparts, and 
sending a shower of spray a couple of miles down 
the glen ! Who, contemplating the alternate beauty 
and stern sublimity of such a scene, would not 

exclaim, 

"Meet nurse for a poetic child !" 

Yet the spectator will be surprised to find that the 
poet, to whom this fine sheet of water in its various 
and interesting aspects must have been so familiar, 
has not, in all his writings, made the slightest allu- 
sion to it, or drawn from its varying moods a single 
illustration. 

Were we to attempt to account for a fact so sin- 
gular, we might refer the omission to a desire on 
the part of the poet, which we shall find further 
indicated as we proceed, to prevent the identifica- 
tion of the scenes described in his works with the 
places in which the events he relates had actually 



20 Glenesk. 



occurred, in order to avoid the awkwardness 01 
inconvenience of personal reference to the relatives 
of his principal characters. 

The feal, that had been used for cropping, has 
now formed a sufficient amount of soil near the 
corner above the poet's window to afford footing 
and nourishment to a dwarf-like willow, that fondly 
casts its contorted branches around the endeared 
spot. Standing at his door, Ross had the parish 
church at a short distance, and slightly to the west, 
between him and the eastern end of the loch; and 
the manse somewhat to the east of his humble 
abode. Behind it rises a dark precipitous hill of 
gneiss, called the Priest's Craig, along the face of 
which, in a somewhat slanting direction, flows the 
Lawrie, which, at a distance, presents the appear- 
ance of a few small patches of snow lying on the 
mountain; but on a nearer approach we find that 
these are the indications of 

" The silent water slipping from the hill." 

When it reaches the plain it flows between the old 
school-house and the manse ; and, murmuring along 
the east end of the churchyard, mingles its waters 
with those of the Lee at the Monk's Pool, from 
which salmon of considerable size are occasionally 
taken, and near which flint arrow-heads a're occa- 
sionally found. As he mused in his study, or 
taught in the school, the roar of the Lawrie would 
indicate to his experienced ear the amount of rain 



Glenesk. 2 1 



that had fallen among the hills. At the end of his 
cottage, around which we found the foxglove and the 
viper's bugloss, with its turquoise flowers, in great 
luxuriance, whilst the nettles within rendered it 
difficult to enter, he had found pleasure, profit, and 
recreation in cultivating a little garden, of which 
not a vestige now remains. Among the flowers 
we habitually meet in the rural garden, we have 
reason to believe that there was a highly-valued 
bed of camomile, which would not only afford him 
an agreeable seat of repose after he had finished 
the labours of the " noisy mansion;" but whose 
flowers would also be stored away among the na- 
tive " simples" of the healing art. Hence, in his 
" Helenore," when the squire recounts the plea- 
sures that his shepherdess would enjoy, should she 
consent to become the mistress of "Bonny-ha';" 
telling her she might either pull apples or eat 
" hinny pears,'' or enjoy the privilege 

" Upon the camowyne to lean her down, 
With roses red and white all busked round ; " 

who does not feel that the poet is, perhaps uncon- 
sciously, describing the simple but natural ingre- 
dients of his own happiness, which he therefore 
supposed could not fail to afford similar happiness 
to others? 

When visited by the author of "Attic Frag- 
ments," the cottage, although even then in ruins, 
still retained some interesting traces of its distin- 



2z Glenesk. 



guished inhabitant ; for he had the pleasure of see- 
ing " the little bank of camomile " in the garden ; 
and near the little window " he saw, or fancied he 
saw, the marks of his rude chair and little table in 
the clay floor." He expresses his opinion that 
" Helenore " " contains some of the most romantic 
descriptions that ever were written, and preserves 
traces of customs and traditions not to be found 
elsewhere." 

We know not how it may affect others, but we 
confess we should have enjoyed more pleasure in 
finding the cottage still inhabited, — perhaps by some 
lone widow of the glen, turning a loop in the front 
of the cottage from which had gone up so long the 
voice of prayer and praise, and so much been 
v/ritten in a cheerful spirit and a Christian strain, 
whilst some kind neighbour would of an evening 
have " delved in the yard " and preserved the 
poet's "bed o' camowyne," — than in seeing the 
walls bulging to their fall, employed as part of a 
sheepfold, and overgrown with nettles. As Lord 
Dalhousie is understood to have prevented these 
walls from being entirely removed, would it not 
be a suitable tribute to genius to go a step further 
and preserve them a little longer from the in- 
evitable effects of neglect? While scanning the 
interior of the west end, we descried on the left- 
hand side of the fireplace the outline of the 
"bole," or square aperture for holding small ar- 
ticles, well known to the thrifty housewife to be 



Glenesk. 23 



necessary to the comfort of the family; it has 
been carefully built up. 

The loch is somewhat more than a mile in length 
and about half a mile in breadth ; in some places 
it is sixteen fathoms, or ninety-six feet in depth ; 
but the general depth is from thirteen to fourteen 
fathoms, except at the western extremity, where a 
process of silting has evidently been for ages gra- 
dually going on. For a considerable distance from 
the margin, the " sand bed," as it is appropriately 
called, is not covered by above two feet of water, 
but the next step might suddenly plunge the un- 
wary explorer into a depth of as many fathoms. 
The greatest depth, however, shows what an im- 
mense hole thus forms the bed of the loch, and 
forcibly suggests the idea of its having one day 
been the mouth of a volcano. Towards the west, 
the view is bounded by Craigmaskeldie, which we 
formerly saw when emerging from the valley of 
Millden. A hollow near the top of it is called the 
Bride's Bed, and tradition avers that this name 
commemorates the death of a bride at this place 
whilst the marriage-party was either going to Clova 
or returning from it. At the base of the crag, the 
Lee comes brattling down the glen, having been 
previously joined by the Unich, at the distance of 
about two miles, and, in singularly fantastic links 
or windings, meanders through an alluvial plain 
covered with sprots, intermingled with cuckoo- 
flowers, which has evidently been formed by the 



24 Glenesk. 



matter brought from the mountains by the Lee, in 
the same manner that it is now forming the " sand 
bed." The farm-steading at the south-west corner 
of the loch is Inchgrundle, where Dr Guthrie 
spends his annual summer holiday, musing on its 
banks or floating on its breast, and occasionally 
tempting the finny dwellers in the deep. On the 
slope of the hill on the north side of the loch may 
still be traced the foundations of many of the cot- 
tages that had formed the hamlet of Glenlee, whose 
last inhabitant, Johnny Gordon, who died in 1852, 
was wont to declare that it was once the largest 
clachan in the parish. Cairn Caidloch, the hill on 
the south side of the loch, rises so abruptly that 
for thirty days in winter the direct rays of the sun 
never fell on the humble abode of our poet. 

Let us now make a more particular survey of 
the old church and its interesting kirkyard, stand- 
ing on the very verge of the placid lake. With the 
exception of the front, the other walls are pretty 
entire, being thick and strongly built. At what 
period a church was first planted here, it would 
be difficult to ascertain. The name Droustie, so 
familiar to all in the parish, as Droustie's Kirk, 
Droustie's Well, and Droustie's Meadow, together 
with the Priest's Craig and the Monk's Pool, would 
naturally suggest the name and days of St Drostan. 
He was an abbot, and the nephew of St Columba; 
but, having withdrawn from the rule of the Abbey 
of Dulquongale in Ireland, he betook himself to 



Glenesk. 2 5 



Scotland, where he lived the life of a hermit, and 
"built a church in a place called Glenesk." It 
has been contended that that place was Edzell ; 
but the names of places in this locality would seem 
to form no inconsiderable plea in favour of Loch- 
lee. When Montrose was in this district he burnt 
the church, in 1645, so that we are probably look- 
ing on the ruins of the building that was recon- 
structed in its stead, and which, down to the year 
of our poet's death, was thatched with heath. 
There had been but one gallery, and that in the 
east end, which had been reached by a stair from 
the outside, so that the pulpit had probably been 
in the west end ; and with these simple elements 
we can easily reproduce in our mind the former 
appearance of this house of prayer, and readily 
imagine that, in a stormy day, while the foam 
v/ould float around the church, the dash of the 
waves would mingle with the voice of the preacher, 
or bear their part in the song of praise. On enter- 
ing the gate of the graveyard, we are confronted 
by the gravestone erected to the memory of our 
poet, and opposite to it that of his beloved wife, 
which will afterwards be described. In the east 
wall, a little further to the north, we find a large 
mural tablet, containing a Latin inscription in 
verse, which is understood to be the composition 
of Mr Ross. In the triangular portion at the top 
of the monument there are the usual skull, cross- 
bones, sand-glass, and cherub's head. Then we 



26 Glenesk. 



are informed, in Latin prose, that near that monu- 
ment lie the ashes of John Garden of Midstrath, 
Esq., and of Catharine Farquharson, his dearly 
beloved wife, who were married 29th October 
1696, and died at Invermark; he on the 26th 
April 1745, in the 73d year of his age, but she 
on the 24th November 1738, in the 63d year of 
her age. Then comes the following verses : — 

" Quos Hymen thalamo, teneris conjunxerat annis ; 
Queisque dedit multos vivere laute dies ; 
Peracto vitse, summo cum decore, cursu, 
Componit tumulo, nosce, viator, uno. 
Ast probos, providos, benevolos, atque benignos, 
Veridico vivens buccinat ore Fama." 

The substance of which may be thus ex- 
pressed : — 

" Whom Hymen led to nuptial bed, 

And bless'd with length of days, 
When run their race, in joy and grace, 

In this one tomb he lays ; 
But deathless Fame records their name, 

Illumed with Virtue's rays." 

We are further informed that this stone was 
erected by one of their sons — the Rev. Robert 
Garden of St Fergus. In front of this monument 
we find, on a long, flat stone, broken across and 
clamped, another poetical epitaph, which has also 
been ascribed to our poet. It is so overgrown by 
the matted sward that we had difficulty in decipher- 
ing it ; and, unless these epitaphs are renewed, they 



Glenesk. 27 



will soon be hopelessly illegible. It covers the 
remains of Mr Charles Garden of Ballastreen, in 
Aboyne, who died in 1 761, at the age of 90 years :— 

" Entomb'd here lies what 's mortal of the man, 
Who fill'd with honour life's extended span ; 
Of stature handsome, front erect and fair, 
Of dauntless brow, yet mild and debonair ; 
The camp engaged his youth, and would his age, 
Had cares domestic not recall'd his stage, 
By claim of blood, to represent a line, 
That, but for him, was ready to decline ; 
He was the Husband, Father, Neighbour, Friend, 
And all their special properties sustain'd ; 
Of prudent conduct, and of morals sound, 
And who, at last, with length of days was crown'd." 

These families were related to Garden of Troup, 
and were tacksmen and factors for the Panmure 
and Glenesk portions of the forfeited estates ; and 
Ross would feel a deeper interest in them, as 
being connected with his early patron. 

We have another epitaph, composed by Ross, 
on the gravestone of Helen Milne, spouse to 
David Christieson, in Auchrony, who died in 1775, 
aged 64 years : — 

'.- Stop, passenger, incline thine head, 
And talk a little with the dead ; 
I had my day as well as thou, 
But worms are my companions now. 
Hence, then, and for thy change prepare, 
With best endeavour — earnest care ; 
For Death pursues the(e) as a post ; 
There 's not a moment to be lost." 



28 Glenesk. 



Another poetical epitaph apparently belongs to 
a member of the same family. On the 4th of 
June 1 75 1, Daniel Christieson, a comparatively 
young man, for he was only 36 years of age, had 
got himself so completely entangled in moor-burn, 
or the intentional burning of heath on the hills, 
that he was unable to extricate himself, and thus 
lamentably perished " in the sparks that he had 
kindled." This might, therefore, have been looked 
upon by his uncharitable neighbours as an evi- 
dence that vengeance had overtaken him for some 
unknown sin. Ross, therefore, in the epitaph he 
wiote for this humble head-stone, took care to 
counteract such an uncharitable surmise, as well 
as to assert the sovereignty of God : — 

" From what befalls us here below, 
Let none from thence conclude, 
Our life shall after death be so : — 
The young man's life was good ; 

"Yet heavenly wisdom thought it fit, 
In its all-sovereign way, 
• The flames to kill him to permit, 
And so to close his day." 

The graveyard is surrounded by ash and rowan 
trees. One of these, on the south side, presents a 
singular contrast to the luxurious foliage of the 
rest; for, after having attained the sanie height 
with its neighbours, it stands completely blighted 
and bleached. Mr Jervise, in his interesting work, 
" The Land of the Lindsays," informs us that at 



Glenesk. 29 



the foot of this tree were laid the ashes of a young 
mar., who had run a brief and bright, but wayward 
career; so that it may, in a manner, be looked 
upon as the most remarkable sepulchral monument 
of the whole. We shall now gather the more strik- 
ing features of the scene and some of their asso- 
ciations into the following sonnet : — 

TO LOCHLEE. 

Wending through crowded hills our heath -grown way, 
We gravely hail thy lonely Loch, dark Lee ; 
Then view thy ruin'd church, whose blighted tree 

Pictures thy student's bright but hapless day. 
There Time's spent glass, gaunt skulls and transverse 

bones, 
With moral rhymes, adorn thy mossy stones, 

W r hile thy soft wavelets and the sighing leaves, 
That once in concert swell'd the weekly psalm, 
Prolong thy shepherds' slumbers deep and calm ; 

Here green the turf that wraps thy poet heaves, 

Who, wisely musing on thy tranquil face, 

When zephyr's whisper hush'd the tempest's roar, 
Sung through thy glen, the Lord would thus restore 

Peace, where He breathes the Spirit of His grace I 

Such are the old church and graveyard of Loch- 
lee, and such are some of the epitaphs which our 
author had composed to gratify the feelings of the 
relatives of the departed, and to " teach the rustic 
moralist to die." 




LIFE OF ROSS 




HOWEVER much hero-worship may be 
condemned by some, and ridiculed by 
others, yet the principle that prompts to 
it is deeply implanted in our nature, and may 
therefore be regulated, but not eradicated; and 
that regulating principle may be found in the 
statement of the apostle to the Gentiles, "They 
glorified God in me." 

There are few, accordingly, that can contemplate 
with indifference the grave of the patriot, the spot 
of the martyr's immolation, the battle-field of free- 
dom, or even the humble abode of one who spent 
a long life in imparting to the young the inestim- 
able blessing of a religious education, shedding 
around him the powerful example of an upright 
life, and imparting both harmless amusement and 
useful instruction by the productions of his genius. 
It was in obedience to this impulse that we recently 
found our way to the retired region whose wild 
and beautiful aspects must have been so familiar 
to the gaze of the author of " Helenore ; " and we 



Life of Ross. 31 

would now submit, as the result of our various 
inquiries, such events as diversified the "even 
tenor" of his active and useful, but retired and 
studious life. 

Alexander Ross was born on the 13th April 
1699, in the parish of Kincardine O'Neil, county 
of Aberdeen. His father, Andrew Ross, subtenant 
of Torphins, sent his son at an early age to the 
parish school, which was then taught by Mr Peter 
Reid, who earned a high reputation for assiduity 
in the discharge of his office, and success in im- 
parting instruction to his pupils. It was the prac- 
tice, as the Latin class advanced in their studies, 
not only to teach them to analyse and translate 
select passages from the poets, but also to require 
them to commit those lessons to memory ; and, as 
"the new cask, thus early seasoned, would long 
retain the odour," so Ross, after he had attained 
the age of eighty years, would repeat some of these 
favourite passages with great pleasure ; and there 
can be little doubt that his early acquaintance 
with Virgil, and his admiration of his pastorals, 
had no small influence on his own compositions, 
just as there is reason to believe that some of his 
earliest attempts at versification were translations 
of select odes of Horace into English, without any 
other object than that of the young bird when it 
"snatches the fearful joy" of exercising its new- 
fledged wings. 

There had long been, and still remains in this 



32 Life of Ross. 



county, even among parents in humble life, a 
strong desire, excited perhaps by the facility of 
obtaining a classical education at the parish schools, 
to afford their sons, or at least one of them, a uni- 
versity education. The hope of accomplishing this 
object would be fostered by the possibility of the 
young aspirant's obtaining, by competition in Latin 
composition, one of those bursaries or exhibitions 
which are at once the reward of merit, and the 
means of enabling the student to prosecute his 
literary and scientific career. 

Thus young Ross, having studied Latin about 
four years, went, as a matter of course, to the 
competition at Marischal College, Aberdeen, in 
November 1714; and, from the progress he had 
made under his excellent teacher, he was success- 
ful in obtaining a bursary, which would be duly 
paid to him for four successive sessions. 

What progress he made in the subjects then 
studied at college we have no means of ascertain- 
ing, although for his own satisfaction he was 
known, even in advanced life, to peruse the New 
Testament in the original. During part of his 
course, Thomas Blackwell, William Meston, and 
Colin M'Laurin were professors — names that are 
all well known in the republic of letters and 
science. On completing his college curriculum, 
he received the degree of Master of Arts, in the 
year 1718; and, having been recommended by a 
gentleman who had formed a favourable opinion 



Life of Ross. 33 



of his attainments, he entered the family of Sir 
William Forbes of Craigievar, who then resided at 
Fintray House, in the capacity of family tutor. 
How long he continued in this situation is uncer- 
tain ; but there is no doubt that he gave satisfaction 
to his employer, both from Sir William's saying on 
one occasion of paying him his salary, " I am very 
well satisfied with your deportment," and from his 
assuring him that, should he study divinity, his 
interest would not be wanting in promoting his 
views ; and, when it is considered that Sir William 
had no fewer than fourteen benefices in his gift, 
the promise had a very important significance. 
Young Ross, however, notwithstanding this stimu- 
lating promise, did not professionally study divinity, 
modestly alleging his unfitness for the responsible 
office of the holy ministry. 

After leaving Fintray House, where his manners 
received a polish that they ever after retained, 
he taught for some time the parish school of 
Aboyne, not far from Baremuir, the place of his 
nativity, and afterwards in that of Laurencekirk, 
where he became acquainted with the father of 
Dr Beattie, whom Ross was wont to describe as 
a man of great natural acuteness, of surprising 
knowledge, and of no mean poetical powers. Mr 
Ross, however, could not have continued long in 
each of the situations through which we have now 
traced his course; for in 1726 he married Jane, 
daughter of Charles Catanach, farmer in the parish 



34 Life of Ross. 



of Logie-Coldstone, and presbytery of Kincardine 
O'Neil, and therefore probably the object of an 
early attachment. One of his biographers has 
surmised that the reason why Ross did not study 
divinity was, that he preferred a wife to the 
Church; but when it is considered that young 
men have generally resolved what profession they 
are to follow before the end of their philosophical 
course, and then enter on their professional studies, 
and that Ross might have passed through his 
divinity course in four sessions, and thus have been 
a preacher of the gospel for other four years before 
he was married, the improbability of such a reason 
at once becomes apparent. 

Although his wife, who was a grand-daughter of 
James Duguid, Esq. of Auchinhove, was avowedly 
of Popish principles ; yet those disagreeable conse- 
quences that generally result from such unequal 
unions seem to have been escaped, partly by the 
liberality of Mrs Ross, who occasionally attended 
the Established Church with her husband, and 
made no objection to their children being trained 
up in the Protestant doctrines — the result, per- 
haps, of her distance from priestly interference; 
and partly by the pious and amiable character of 
her husband. 

About six years after his marriage, Mr Ross, 
through the interest of Alexander Garden, Esq. of 
Troup, obtained the parish school of Lochlee, 
where he pursued the important avocation of a 



Life of Ross. 35 

teacher during the remainder of his protracted life. 
One cannot but regret that a man who possessed 
such natural abilities and eminent attainments, at 
least in the Latin language, and whose qualifications 
had at an early period become known to men of 
influence, should thus have been permitted to lead 
the life of a recluse, and to obtain a reward so 
inadequate to his merit, especially as it was only 
in the profession he had chosen that he could 
have any hope to rise ; for it would have been a 
very different matter had he qualified himself for 
the ministry, as he might then have expected any- 
day that one of the numerous presentations in the 
gift of Sir William Forbes might have been put 
into his hands. Whilst we have no desire, how- 
ever, to overestimate his emoluments, yet, when 
the whole circumstances of his case are taken into 
consideration, they were not so insignificant as 
some have hastily represented them ; and perhaps 
they were not inferior to those of other parish 
schools in the districts with which he was ac- 
quainted. The school-house was latterly by no 
means centrical : so that the children of only five 
or six families could conveniently attend, and their 
fees, accordingly, must have been but trifling ; but, 
indeed, we do not see how the school-room could 
have contained more scholars than the average that 
these few families would have afforded. 

In giving us an account of Ross's emoluments, his 
grandson, whose information on this matter ought 



36 Life of Ross. 



to have been accurate, has not distinguished the 
allowance of the " reader and catechist " from that 
of the schoolmaster. At the beginning of the pres- 
ent century, the salary of the schoolmaster of Loch- 
lee was ^22, 6s. 8d. sterling, together with a house 
and garden ; but, during Ross's incumbency, the 
highest legal allowance was barely the half of 
that sum. Then the allowance formerly granted 
to the " reader and catechist," and afterwards 
transferred to the schoolmaster, was one hundred 
merks, or ^5, us. ijd. sterling, six bolls of meal, 
and "feal and divot in the hill of Invermark, 
together with six acres of arable and pasture land, 
in lieu of the two crofts and pasture for twenty 
sheep" mentioned in the original grant ; as session- 
clerk and precentor he would, according to the rate 
at the beginning of this century, have perhaps £2 
more ; and then he would have a trifle for school- 
fees. When we were in Lochlee, through the 
exertions of a gentleman who entered warmly into 
our inquiries, we had an opportunity of seeing two 
documents drawn up and signed by Mr Ross as 
Notary Public — a fact that had escaped the notice 
of his former biographers \ and, through the kind 
attention of Mr Stuart, General Register House, 
we are enabled to give the following extract from 
the Register of Notaries Public, which is not with- 
out interest : — " 23 July 1730, Alexander Ross, son 
to Andrew Ross, subtenant in Torphins;" which 



Life of Ross. 37 



we have no doubt refers to our author; as the 
date would indicate that he had seen the propriety 
of taking this step four years after his marriage, as 
he might anticipate that this office would contribute 
somewhat to his income, while it shows his activity 
and prudence in availing himself of all legitimate 
means for the respectable maintenance of his 
family. All these considerations prove that our 
poet's emoluments were no doubt on an average 
with those enjoyed in the district around him by 
the members of the profession which he had chosen 
to adopt ; but let it not for a moment be supposed 
that we think such an allowance was sufficient for 
a graduate of a university, discharging the impor- 
tant functions of an instructor of youth, as well as 
other duties in the service of the Church, especially 
when we know that the inadequacy of such remu- 
neration called for legislative interference about 
1803, and that the salary of the parish schoolmaster 
of Lochlee was doubled about that time. All 
things considered, however, our poet occupied a far 
more congenial and comfortable position than did 
Robert Burns, in "gauging clarty barrels " for ^50 
a year, with a deduction of ;£io or ^12 of ex- 
penses. Thus genius may be feasted, applauded, 
intoxicated, ruined — anything but remunerated ! 
In connexion with this subject, we may here 
advert to a circumstance which is not only charac- 
teristic of the simplicity of Ross's mind, but as 



38 Life of Ross. 



indicating a sagacity that was not displayed by the 
united wisdom of the British legislature till nearly 
a century afterwards. 

We allude to the importance he attached to the 
registration of births, and the efforts he made to 
counteract the carelessness or indifference of the 
parishioners. We find the following entry, which 
supports these statements, in the session-book, as 
quoted by Mr Jervise : — " I designed to have kept 
a regular accompt of the baptisms of this parish 
during my incumbency as session-clerk and pre- 
centor; but no man, whether attending kirk or 
meeting-house, ever once desired me to do that 
office for him, or ever gave me the dues for en- 
rolling their children, except David Christieson of 
Auchrony, that paid me for recording his eldest son, 
John; and even the few that are recorded were 
done by informing myself of their names, and the 
time of their baptism, the best way I could, so that 
I hope the world will excuse me when the register 
is found deficient as to this particular." Yes, the 
world readily excuses the imperfection of the regis- 
ter, seeing that it required an Act of Parliament, 
and a penalty of twenty shillings, to compel parents 
to perforin the duty that the parishioners of Loch- 
lee neglected ; the world applauds thy disinterested- 
ness that spontaneously forced a favour on those 
families whose children's names thou didst record : 
and the world regrets that thou shouldst have been 
thus deprived of the slight addition that the dues 



Life of Ross. 39 



arising from these registrations would have added 
to thy slender income ! 

The only literary companion with whom Mr 
Ross could have had any intercourse for the greater 
part of the year was his parish minister. The 
parish of Lochlee was not erected into an inde- 
pendent charge till 1723, when the Rev. Mr Garden 
was appointed minister. As the Rev. Mr Blair, 
who is said to have been the first to institute a 
Sabbath-school in Scotland, and was one of those 
who appended their signatures to Willison's " Fair 
and Impartial Testimony," was -translated to 
Brechin in 1733, Mr Ross could have had little 
intercourse with him, as the one must have been 
leaving when the other was arriving. Mr Blair was 
succeeded by the Rev. John Scott, who baptized 
Mr Ross's eldest daughter in 1734, and who died 
suddenly near Tarfside, on his way to the presby- 
tery of Brechin, 24th January 1758. At the time 
when Mr Ross became an author, the minister also 
bore the same name, came originally from the 
same parish, and had been a schoolfellow of our 
poet. He had reached the age of sixty-six years 
before he was advanced to the honour of a parish 
minister; yet he occupied that position for twenty- 
one years. There are many anecdotes respecting 
him yet afloat in the district, one or two of which 
may be narrated, as indicating the manners of that 
period. On one occasion, while he was preaching, 
a puff of wind deranged the leaves of his sermon, 



40 Life of Ross. 



and he was unable to find the place where he had 
been so unceremoniously interrupted. Looking 
down to one of his hearers who had an excellent 
memory, and who was sitting with his plaid drawn 
up about his ears, the minister exclaimed, " You 
are sleeping, Bush ! " " Od, I 'm nae the like, sir," 
was the reply. " What were the last words that I 
said, then 1 ?" Bush immediately told him; the 
minister found the place, and then proceeded. 
The other anecdote refers to our poet, and has 
been variously told, although the point is the same, 
and we shall tell it as we last heard it. A gentle- 
man having come to see Mr Ross after he had be- 
come known by the publication of his poem, on 
inquiring for Mr Eoss, was directed to the minister, 
who was within sight. After entering into conver- 
sation, the minister discovered the stranger's mis- 
take, and in his usual repetitive manner said, " I 
doubt, I doubt ye 're wrang. I 'm only the min- 
ister!" It is also reported that, when "Helenore" 
was published, he told the author he had read his 
work, but did not much approve of it, as it was 
not true ; to which the author replied, that he pre- 
sumed it was not more deficient in that respect 
than the " ^Eneid " of Virgil, or the "Gentle 
Shepherd" of Ramsay. It is said, however, that 
he gave satisfaction to his hearers by his plain 
and sound doctrine ; but it is evident there could 
have been but little sympathy between him and our 
author in the regions of poetry. 



Life of Ross. 41 



During the dreary months of winter, when the 
snow lay so thick that the roads were impassable, 
and for thirty days the shade of the opposite moun- 
tain cast its gloom on the school-house, the office 
of the teacher must have been a sinecure, when he 
would, however, have abundant leisure to gratify 
his literary tastes. One of the recreations of the 
inhabitants of the glen during this dreary period, 
was derived from the strains of the violin of John 
Cameron, from Glenmuick, who continued to pay 
them an annual visit for upwards of forty years, 
when some enjoyed the exhilarating dance, and 
some acquired from him the art of performing on 
his instrument. Mr Ross appears to have enjoyed 
the company of Cameron, who was a man of un- 
blemished character, and could speak of not a few 
of the customs of the Highlanders that were even 
then beginning to disappear ; such as the practice 
of the nearest relatives leading off a solemn dance, 
to a plaintive melody, immediately after the death 
of a member of the family. Although this prac- 
tice had prevailed in a district not more than six- 
teen miles distant from Lochlee, yet no tradition 
records that it was ever known in this district. As 
Mr Ross himself was also a performer on the violin, 
he would the more appreciate the music of Came- 
ron, and probably enjoy the singing of some of his 
own songs to the accompaniment of the more ex- 
perienced musician. 

In the summer season, however, the case was 

E 



42 L ife of Ross. 



very different; and we should form a very erro- 
neous conception of Ross's condition did we not 
advert to the company with whom he was then 
accustomed to meet in the glen,. " I may venture 
to say, indeed," remarks his grandson, " that never 
was there a man in his station more taken notice 
of, and more esteemed, not only on account of his 
genius as a poet, and his abilities as a scholar, but the 
decency and propriety of his conduct, his genteel 
address, and particularly his readiness to oblige." 

We may briefly advert to some of those parties 
who were thus wont to visit the district, and to 
show respect for our author. 

Many invalids were attracted to the glen in 
summer, not only by the beauty of the scenery 
and the purity of the air, but also for the benefit 
of goats' milk; while others came to enjoy the 
pleasures of shooting and fishing. As the Lee 
when it issues from the loch is but a small stream, 
it seems to have occasionally formed part of the 
amusement of parties thus brought together to hire 
some of the country people to close up the apper- 
ture by which it issues from the loch ; the bed of 
the river was then left dry between the loch and 
the Mark, and no small amusement was created in 
catching the trouts and eels that were thus left 
aground in the bed of the stream. Our author, 
who was a keen fisher, was always invited by the 
gentlemen to join in the sport, and to dine with 
them in the evening afterwards. 



Life of Ross. 43 



The year 1767 was especially rendered memor- 
able to the dwellers in the glen by the appearance, 
for the first time, of the Earl and Countess of 
Northesk, with several members of their family, 
who took up their residence at Gleneffock, then 
rented by Mr Thomas Jolly, a man of education 
and polite manners, with whom our poet lived on 
very intimate terms. 

A few days after their arrival, Lord Northesk 
called on Mr Ross, complimented him on his 
works, which he could have examined only in 
manuscript, and invited him to dine. He was 
much gratified with the kindness and attention 
they showed him; and, during the time they re- 
mained in the glen, he was frequently invited to 
partake of their hospitality. 

Another proof of the estimation in which Ross 
was held may here be noticed, although not in the 
strict order of time. The Earl of Panmure, having 
visited this remote corner of his extensive pro- 
perty, was met at Droustie, where he intended to 
dine and spend the night, by a number of his 
tenantry, headed by the minister and the school- 
master. After mutual congratulations had been 
exchanged, the innkeeper informed the company 
that a repast had been prepared for them at his 
lordship's desire. Mr Ross modestly went along 
with the rest ; but his lordship immediately sent 
for him, placed him near himself, and frequently 
conversed with him. Next day, his lordship, in- 



44 Life of Ross. 



tending to make the tour of the loch, kindly in- 
vited Mr Ross to join the party. He accordingly 
set out with them ; but as he was now bordering on 
eighty, and the road was very rough, he began to 
fall behind. His lordship, on observing the cir- 
cumstance, very considerately desired him to re- 
turn, and to be sure to meet him at dinner. 

Sir James and Lady Carnegie of Southesk also 
spent some weeks for several years in the glen, 
and always treated the schoolmaster with much 
kindness and regard, which he humbly conceived 
rather proceeded from condescension on their part 
than from any merit in the object of their atten- 
tion. 

But the important event was now approaching 
which was to extend the knowledge of Ross's 
genius and character far beyond the limits of his 
romantic glen, to which he has undoubtedly added 
an additional charm. We have seen that Ross 
was noticed and esteemed long before any of his 
compositions were given to the public through the 
press ; and we have also learned that he was a 
composer of verses from his youth. As some of 
the gentlemen who showed so much regard to 
Ross did so not only on account of his character, 
but also his genius, several of the compositions of 
Ross must, therefore, have been circulated before 
they were printed. His songs would be handed 
about in manuscript, or transmitted from memory 
to memory among the maidens of the district. 



Life of Ross. 45 



Now that we have examined several of his com- 
positions, written in his own neat and careful hand, 
and stitched up in separate fascicles, well dog-eared, 
and deeply imbrowned with the reek of the ingle, 
we have little doubt that these had circulated 
among the cottages of the glen ; and this convic- 
tion has, in some measure, diminished our regret 
that some of them, such as his " Religious Pas- 
torals," had not been committed to the press, that 
they might have extended sound theological and 
moral lessons, as based on doctrines which, we 
fear, were not then so common as now ; for Ross 
had clearly imbibed evangelical principles, and be- 
lieved that the true source of obedience was love 
to Him who died for our sins, and rose again for 
our justification. Neither can it be properly said 
that he had never written a single line with a view 
to publication, but only to amuse a solitary hour ; 
for the preface to his " Religious Pastorals/' dated 
1754, or fourteen years before the publication of the 
" Fortunate Shepherdess," intimates that, at first, 
the author had no intention of publication; but, 
after the work had lain by him for some time, 
a reperusal of it led him to think that it might 
" creep forth and show itself without any ostenta- 
tion among the papers that were designed for 
general good." 

Be this, however, as it may, in 1766, urgent 
business brought him to Aberdeen. Six years be- 
fore that date, Dr James Beattie had been installed 



46 Life of Ross. 



Professor of Moral Philosophy at Aberdeen, and 
had published a volume of poems, of which a new 
edition was demanded in the summer of that very 
year ; but, although " The Minstrel " was on the 
way, yet the first canto did not appear till five years 
afterwards. Mr Ross, to whom these things could 
not be unknown, relying on his early acquaintance 
with Dr Beattie's father, and the congeniality of 
their poetical temperament, and carrying with him 
his little manuscript volumes, sought and obtained 
an interview with the professor. Beattie was not 
less pleased with Ross himself, than gratified by 
the information he received from him respecting 
his father, who had died when the professor was 
so young that he scarcely remembered that he 
had seen him. Such an interview must have been 
highly gratifying to Beattie, who readily undertook 
to examine the manuscripts that Ross had brought 
with him, and to select such pieces as he thought 
most worthy of publication. At last this selection, 
consisting of the " Fortunate Shepherdess," and a 
few songs, was printed and published at Aberdeen 
by J. Boyle, in 1768.* Ross realised about ^20 

* The following formed the title-page of the first edi- 
tion : — " The Fortunate Shepherdess, a Pastoral Tale ; in 
Three Cantos, in the Scotish Dialect. By Mr Alexander 
Ross, Schoolmaster at Lochlee. To which is added a few 
Songs by the same Author. Aberdeen : Printed by, and 
for, Francis Douglas, 1768." On the back of the title-page 
is an intimation that the work had been entered at Stationers' 
Hall. 



Life of Ross. 47 



by the speculation, which appears to have far ex- 
ceeded his expectations. 

Prefixed to the work was the following "Ad- 
vertisement," to which Dr Beattie adverts in his 
letter; but which has been omitted in all sub- 
sequent editions : — 

" It would be unpardonable in the author to let 
slip this opportunity of making his just acknow- 
ledgments to the great number of gentlemen and 
ladies who have by their subscriptions so gener- 
ously promoted the publication of this little work. 

" Sensible as he is of the defects in his perfor- 
mance, he has little to hope from the most candid 
criticism. To set before the readers' eyes, in 
their plain and native colours, a variety of inci- 
dents in low life, was what he had chiefly in view. 
How far he hath succeeded in his design, every 
reader will judge for himself. 

" Sequestered from the polite world, and, by his 
situation in life, barred from society, he found 
much amusement in observing the natural effects 
of the human passions on the conduct and man- 
ners of plain country people. And though that 
depravity of manners, so generally and so justly 
complained of by moral writers, hath found its 
way into the cottages of the poor; yet one — he 
hopes he may say it without offence — meets some- 
times with a degree of innocent simplicity and 
honest meaning among the lower ranks of people 
in remote parts of the country, which he can 



48 Life of Ross. 



hardly expect to find in large towns, or among the 
higher ranks of mankind. 

" He hath endeavoured to support the characters 
introduced in the best manner he could, and to 
give the various scenes such colouring as to him 
seemed just and natural. He is sensible that in 
some places he hath been rather too prolix ; but 
hopes the reader will forgive that fault, when he 
considers how unwillingly the mind turns away 
from an interesting object, and that even this pro- 
lixity is characteristic of the people he describes ; 
for the lower ranks of mankind cannot think or 
speak in that elegant and concise manner which 
distinguisheth those in higher spheres of life. 

" With regard to the conduct of the story in ge- 
neral, the author will possibly be blamed for throw- 
ing so many rubs in the way of the young couple 
he makes so fond of one another from their in- 
fancy, and much more for disappointing their 
hopes in the conclusion. To obviate this, in part, 
he shall only observe that the incidents which 
bring all this about to him seemed possible and 
natural ; and he thinks this important lesson is in- 
culcated by the trouble and disappointment that 
Rosalind met with, that when two young people 
have come under strict engagements to one an- 
other, no consideration whatever should induce 
them to break their faith, or to promise things in- 
compatible with keeping it entire. And besides, 
though they are disappointed, they are not un- 



Life of Ross. 49 



happy, for all things are settled to their mutual 
satisfaction. 

"Though many of the phrases are broad, the 
author has endeavoured, as much as possible, to 
avoid gross indelicacies ; and the reader will con- 
sider, that he represents only the expressions and 
sentiments of plain country people. Many of 
them, he is sensible, will not bear to be tried by 
the rules of grammar. In many cases to have 
altered would have been nearly the same as to 
have spoiled them. Most of them, he imagines, 
will be understood by those who are conversant in 
the old Scottish language and our present pro- 
vincial dialects. 

" To conclude, this small work has lain many 
years by the author, and copies of the manuscript 
had got abroad. One of these was seen by a 
gentleman, who desired it should be published, 
and wrote to the author to that effect. As he 
was conscious that the tendency and design were 
moral, however faulty the execution, his objections 
were easily got over. Had he printed a list of 
those subscribers who do him so much honour, he 
would have laid himself open to the imputation of 
the greatest vanity. He chooses to impute the 
favourable reception which the proposals met with 
rather to the benevolence of those ladies and 
gentlemen who interested themselves in his favour, 
than to any merit in his work ; and of this obliga- 

F 



50 Life of Ross. 



tion they have laid him under he shall always re* 
tain the most grateful sense." 

Dr Beattie, however, as a true friend, did not 
satisfy himself with merely exercising his judgment 
and taste in the selection of the pieces that com- 
posed the volume, but also wrote a letter in com- 
mendation of the work, under the nom de plume of 
Oliver Oldstyle, together with the only poem in 
the Scottish language that he ever published, and 
sent them to the editor of the Aberdeen Journal, 
in which they both appeared under date June i, 
1768. These verses have ever since been prefixed 
to the "Fortunate Shepherdess." Dr Beattie, in 
forwarding a copy of the work to Dr Blacklock, 
thus speaks both of the work and of the author : — 

DR BEATTIE TO DR BLACKLOCK. 

" Aberdeen, July 1, 1768. 
" I have at last found an opportunity of sending 
you the Scottish poems which I mentioned in a 
former letter. The dialect is so licentious, (I 
mean, it is so different from that of the south 
country, which is acknowledged the standard of 
broad Scotch,) that I am afraid you will be at a 
loss to understand it in many places. However, if 
you can overlook this inconvenience, together with 
the tediousness of some passages, and the absurdity 
of others, I doubt not but you will receive some 
amusement from the perusal. The author excels 
most in describing the solitary scenes of a moun- 



Life of Ross. 51 



tainous country, and the manners and conversation 
of the lowest sort of our people. Whenever he 
attempts to step out of this sphere, he becomes 
absurd. This sphere is, indeed, the only one of 
which he has had any experience. He has been 
for these forty years a schoolmaster in one of the 
most sequestered parishes in the Highlands of 
Scotland, where he had no access either to com- 
pany or books that could improve him. His cir- 
cumstances and employment confine him at home 
the whole year long; so that his compositions, 
with all their imperfections, are really surprising. 
My personal acquaintance with him began only 
two years ago, when he had occasion to come to 
this town, on some urgent business. He is a good- 
humoured, social, happy old man ; modest without 
clownishness, and lively without petulance. He 
put into my hands a great number of manuscripts 
in verse, chiefly on religious subjects. I believe 
Sir Richard Blackmore himself is not a more 
voluminous author. The poems now published 
seemed to me the best of the whole collection. 
Indeed, many of the others would hardly bear a 
reading. He told me he had never written a single 
line with a view to publication, but only to amuse 
a solitary hour. Some gentlemen in this country 
set on foot a subscription for his Scottish poems ; 
in consequence of which they were printed ; and he 
will clear by the publication about twenty pounds, 
a sum far exceeding his most sanguine expecta- 



52 Life of Ross. 



tions ; for I believe he would thankfully have sold 
his whole works for five. In order to excite some 
curiosity about his work, I wrote some verses in 
the dialect of this country, which, together with an 
introductory letter in English prose, were published 
in the Aberdeen fournal; and the bookseller tells 
me he has sold about thirty copies since they 
appeared. I have sent you enclosed a copy of 
the verses, with a glossary of the hardest words. 
Having never before attempted to write anything 
in this way, I thought I could not have done it, 
and was not a little surprised to find it so easy. 
However, I fear I have exhausted my whole stock 
of Scottish words in these few lines; for I en- 
deavoured to make the style as broad as possible, 
that it might be the better adapted to the taste of 
those whose curiosity I wished to raise. You will 
observe that Mr Ross is peculiarly unfortunate in 
his choice of proper names. One of his heroes is 
called by a woman's name, Rosalind. The in- 
jurious mountaineers he called Sevitians, with a 
view, no doubt, to express their cruelty ; but the 
printer, not understanding Latin, has changed it 
into Sevilians. The whole is incorrectly printed." 
It would appear, from this letter, that the sub- 
scription for Ross's Scottish poems had been com- 
menced by some gentlemen before Ross , had en- 
joyed the benefit of Beattie's taste in making the 
selection ; and to them, therefore, is due the credit 
of having urged him forward as an author. As Dr 



L ife of Ross. 5 3 



Beattie has stated that most of the pieces that he 
had examined were of a religious character, it is 
evident that he had seen the very manuscripts that 
are yet preserved. His remark, that he was as 
voluminous an author as Sir Richard Blackmore is 
a mere piece of exaggeration, or a prettily-turned 
sentence in an evidently studied letter ; for one of 
Sir Richard's goodly tomes would have swallowed 
up all the little manuscripts of our modest poet. 
We cannot help smiling at the affectation of our 
professor, who had, at that time, little more than 
turned his thirtieth year, in saying that he had ex- 
hausted his Scottish vocabulary in writing a few 
stanzas, and that he wondered how easily he could 
write the language he had daily used during, at 
least, the half of his life ! 

Blacklock, however, to whom it was sent, aad 
whose copy, with Beattie's verses pasted to the end, 
we have had the pleasure of using in preparing our 
edition, seems to have thought more highly of the 
performance than the depreciatory language of 
Beattie might have led us to expect; for Dr Irving 
tells us that he had been assured by one of Dr 
Blacklock's pupils, that the doctor regarded it as 
equal to the pastoral comedy of Ramsay. This is 
the only fact we have derived from Irving's sketch 
of Ross's life, which abounds in inaccuracies and 
uncertainties. The lofty style in which he tells us 
that the verses prefixed to "Helenore" were as- 
crbed to Dr Beattie, " on what foundation I know 



54 Life of Ross. 



not," is amusing, as the " Life of Beattie," by 
Forbes, containing the letter we have quoted, was 
published four years before Irving's " Lives." Cur- 
rie's " Life of Burns " had also made its appearance ; 
and in one of the letters the poet assigns the author- 
ship to Beattie, a fact which he had probably 
learned from Dr Blacklock, on his coming to Edin- 
burgh, two years after Ross had been joined to 
"the sons of the morning." The high apprecia- 
tion of Ross by Burns is expressed in several of 
his letters. In one of them he says — 

" I will send you the 'Fortunate Shepherdess' 
as soon as I return to Ayrshire, for there I keep it 
with other precious treasure. I shall send it by a 
careful hand, as I would not for anything it should 
be mislaid." 

• In addressing the Rev. John Skinner of Linshart, 
he says — " There is a certain something in the old 
Scotch songs, a wild happiness of thought and ex- 
pression, which peculiarly marks them, not only 
from English songs, but also from the modern 
efforts of song-wrights, in our native manner and 
language. The only remains of this enchantment, 
these spells of imagination, rests with you. Our 
true brother, Ross of Lochlee, was likewise ' owre 
cannie ' — a ' wild warlock ' — but now he sings 
among the ' sons of the morning.' " This 1 is high 
praise from such a master of song as Burns ; and 
although we decline the invidious task, it would 
not be difficult to point out in his writings evi- 



Life of Ross. 55 



dences of the impression that Ross's poems had 
produced on his memory. 

In another letter, in which he alludes to the 
information that a lady was then engaged in mak- 
ing a picture of the muse of his district, Coila, he 
says — " I am highly flattered by the news you tell 
me of Coila. I may say to the painter who does 
me so much honour, as Dr Beattie says to Ross 
the poet, of his muse Scota, from whom, by the by, 
I took the idea of Coila, ('tis a poem of Beattie's 
in the Scots dialect, which, perhaps, you have never 
seen,) 

' Ye shak your heid ; but o' my fegs, 
Ye 've set auld Scota on her legs ; 
Lang had she lain wi' beffs an' flegs, 

Bumbazed and dizzie ; 
Her fiddle wanted strings an' pegs ; 
Wae 's me, poor hizzie ! ' " 

The acknowledgment of Burns that he borrowed 
the idea of his Coila in the " Vision" from Ross's 
Scota, is honourable to his candour, as no one 
would have ever suspected the likeness; for the 
" Vision " is one of the highest flights of his imagi- 
nation, and exhibits his great descriptive powers 
and elevated conception of his aerial visitant, where- 
as Ross, as if playfully drawing a comparison from 
his own profession, represents his muse as humbly 
superintending a writing-class, in which 

" Some were writing fair, and, like mysel', some foul." 
After this frank acknowledgment, and his high 



56 Life of Ross. 



admiration of Ross as "an auld warlock," it is 
strange that, in a poem on pastoral poetry, in 
which he asks whether " nane wad blaw the shep- 
herd's whistle mair ? " he replies — 

" Yes, there is ane, a Scottish callan ; 
There 's ane ; come forrit, honest Allan," 

and makes no reference to Ross, although his first 
friend, Blacklock, regarded his " Helenore " as 
equal to the celebrated pastoral of Ramsay. 

The first edition, as Beattie has remarked, was 
most inaccurately printed; for, evidently, no proof- 
sheet had ever found its way to the author. 

The work, however, had been favourably re- 
ceived not only throughout the glen, but also in 
the neighbouring counties, to the inhabitants of 
which the language was not merely intelligible but 
familiar, as the dialect in which they daily spoke. 

It was ten long years, however, before another 
edition was called for; and during the interval our 
author had been busy in improving his work in 
anticipation of this event. 

The new edition, accordingly, exhibits several 
retrenchments, as well as additions, especially that 
of Bydby's amusing dream, in which the author 
has no doubt embodied the notions of the district 
with respect to " the fair folk." Some of ( the songs 
in the former edition are removed, and a glossary 
is added ; the original preface is also omitted, and 
Dr Beattie's verses, are prefixed, but without his 
name. 



Life of Ross. 57 



The admirable fairy-dream of the forlorn Bydby 
has been considered as the highest flight of our 
author's imagination. Beattie had introduced a 
fairy scene in the form of a dream also into his 
"Minstrel;" but the difference between the two 
is as great as between two different races of aerial 
beings. The Minstrel, in his lonely wanderings, 
indulges his fancy in picturing the scenes of fairy- 
land, as suggested by the " haunted stream," till 
sleep overpowers him, and his imagination, in 
his dreaming state, continues the train of thought 
which he had been indulging when the setting 
moon 

" Hung o'er the dark and melancholy deep." 

The vision is then described in two stanzas, in 
which "the host of little warriors," with golden 
targes and diamond lances, march to the sound 
of the warbling wire and martial pipe; while 
" the troop of dames" advance from their myrtle 
bowers, and " thrid the flying maze " with their 
martial partners. All this, although stately and 
elegant, is comparatively distant and cold, but in 
keeping with the character of the hero and the 
tone of the poem. In poor Bydby's dream, how- 
ever, extending through upwards of eighty lines, 
Ross has had equal regard to the character of the 
dreamer and the traditions of the district. His 
"little foukies" are playful elves, dancing, eating, 
and drinking, with whom the hungry dreamer 



58 Life of Ross. 



readily partakes. She is then alarmed at the 
thought of being placed in the top of the tree ; 
honoured by the proposal of being made nurse to 
Fizzee, and amused at the account they give of 
their various tricks. Great liveliness is imparted 
to the scene by making Bydby not a mere onlooker, 
but a deeply interested party; and her awakening 
at the "reemish" of the falling house, and doubt- 
ing whether the whole were not a reality, is ad- 
mirably imagined and well described; while the 
author, by putting his narrative into this form, in- 
directly teaches that these fairy legends had no 
better foundation than the dream of a shepherd 
sleeping by the side of some verdant knoll. 

It would scarcely be an exaggeration to say, that 
there is some touch of the revising pen in every 
page; and, in general, the spelling is- everywhere 
brought into nearer conformity to the English 
standard. This tends in some measure to confirm 
the opinion that the poem was originally written in 
English and not in Scotch. This statement, which 
will startle those who have ever looked upon the 
poem as having originally welled up in its present 
form from a Scottish fount, is thus made by the 
Rev. Harry Stuart of Oathlaw, in a note to his 
treatise on "Agricultural Labourers :" — " I well re- 
member hearing my grandfather often ' tell how, 
when taking a near cut through the Grampians by 
Lochlee, home to the north of Aberdeenshire, he 
lodged a night with Ross, the schoolmaster of that 



Life of R<Jss. 59 



parish, and the poet of that glen, being his kins- 
man. Ross started next day with him, to convey 
him over Mount Keen; and, to beguile a resting 
hour, at the foot of this very steep mountain, when 
they had crossed it, Ross, with great hesitation, 
pulled a paper out of his pocket and read it to my 
grandfather. It was a poem he had composed in 
English verse. When he had done reading, 'Your 
poem, Mr Ross,' said the traveller, 'is delightful, 
and you are nearly as good at the English as you 
are at the Latin. You are trying, I see, to imitate 
some of these great English poets ; but it will not 
go down just yet to speak of Scotch fashions to 
Scotch people in the English tongue. Gae awa 
hame, man, an' turn it into braid Scotch verse ; 
an' gin ye print it, the not a jot will my lassies do 
at their wheel, an' some thousands mair like them, 
till they have read it five or six times o'er.' The 
poet took his advice, and the poem turned out to 
be the once popular 'Fortunate Shepherdess.'" 

Naturally astonished at this statement, we wrote 
to Mr Stuart on the subject, when he was kind 
enough to reply : — "I lived a summer or more 
with my grandfather : he was quite blind the last 
ten years of his life, and some one read to him 
constantly. It was when reading 'Lindy and 
Nory' to him for an exercise to myself — being 
then at school — that he told me again and again 
that it was first written in English verse." 

This remarkable fact, so well established, re- 



6o L ife of Ross. 



ceives confirmation in the circumstance, that all 
Ross's other considerable poems are written in 
English, with the exception of the " Orphan," 
which seems to have been composed after success 
had crowned the " Shepherdess." It is also to be 
observed that the conclusion of his poem, even in 
the first edition, is written in English, although in 
some late editions the removal of the final letters 
in such words as all, and, with, has given it a 
Scottish appearance. 

An event of no small importance in the mono- 
tonous life of the author was connected with the 
publication of this second edition. The Rev. Mr 
Stuart has communicated to us the interesting fact, 
that the celebrated Duchess of Gordon of that 
day sat up a whole night reading "Lindy and 
Nory" when it first came into her hands; although 
Andrew Shirrefs informs us that "her grace was 
not altogether pleased with the manner in which 
the author concludes that story," to which he had 
thus alluded in a rhyming letter to Skinner — 

" She saw the bonny Shepherdess 
Of Flaviana's Braes ; 
And though she lik'd nae a' her dress, 
She boot to gie her praise 

And help yon day." 

Dr Beattie, who had been spending some time 
at Gordon Castle, erroneously stated by Mr Thom- 
son to have been in 1779, and was aware of his 
humble friend's intention to publish a new edi- 



Life of Ross. 61 



tion of his poem, had requested the permission 
of the Duchess to have it dedicated to her grace ; 
and the gracious permission he immediately com- 
municated to the author. The second edition, 
accordingly, was published in 1778, printed more 
accurately, and in a superior style, by Chalmers, 
with the following neat dedication, contrasting so 
favourably with the fulsome adulation of many 
similar productions : — " To Her Grace the Duchess 
of Gordon these Poems are most respectfully in- 
scribed, by Her Grace's most obliged and most 
humble servant, Al. Ross. Lochlee, January 1, 
1778." Dr Irving infers from this dedication that 
the author " seems to acknowledge an antecedent 
obligation. But this obligation, it is more than 
probable, was only some instance of condescen- 
sion." The "instance of condescension" at this 
time was the permission to dedicate his volume to 
her grace ; but, probably, with the foresight of a 
poet, he anticipated that he would soon be laid 
under deeper " obligation " to her grace. Accord- 
ingly he received an invitation to visit Gordon 
Castle, and to present in person the volume that 
the Duchess was thus pleased to patronise ; and he 
complied with the invitation about the beginning 
of July the same year. This was an undertaking 
in those days of no inconsiderable difficulty to a 
man on the border of his eightieth year. His 
grandson tells us that " he set out from Lochlee on 
horseback, with a young man, a friend of his own, 



62 Life of Ross. 

to attend him, arrived at Gordon Castle in safety, 
presented his amiable patroness with an elegant 
copy of his book, which she was graciously pleased 
to accept ; and, after staying for some days in this 
hospitable mansion, where he was honoured with 
much attention and kindness both by the Duke 
and Dutchess, he was presented by the latter with 
an elegant pocket-book, containing a handsome 
present," &c. Now, although the reader may not 
regret much that he has not been made acquainted 
with the name of the young man who attended our 
bard as his henchman, yet he may feel a little dis- 
appointed in not learning what in those days was 
considered " a handsome present " from a duchess 
to her minstrel, "infirm and old;" and others would 
like to know more particularly how he spent the 
time, and what impression he made on his patrons. 
The Rev. Mr Stuart will so far gratify us on the 
last point ; for he says, " He surprised them all by 
his easy gentlemanly manners and conversation ; " 
and the other points will be fully met in the follow- 
ing introductory letter written by Dr Beattie, and 
in the letter which Ross gratefully wrote to the Pro- 
fessor, giving an account of his reception at the 
castle, and the contents of his " pocket-book," 
which must indeed have gratified him, seeing that 
the gift it contained amounted to three-fourths ot 
all that he had realised by his former edition. 
These letters we have the pleasure of submitting 



L ife of Ross. 63 



to the reader for the first time, through the kind- 
ness of the gentleman who possesses the originals. 

We extract only the first part of Dr Beattie's 
introductory letter ; the second refers to a volume 
of his works he had sent her grace, and to the state 
of Mrs Beattie's health. The letter is dated 1st 
July 1778:— 

" Madam, — The person who will have the honour 
to deliver this is no other than Mr Alexander Ross, 
the bard of Lochlee, who craves permission to lay 
his ' Helenore ' at your grace's feet. He is almost 
afraid to venture into such a presence, and thinks 
that fourscore years of retirement mdst have dis- 
qualified him for it ; but I have encouraged him in 
the best manner I could, and assured him that the 
smiles of your grace's countenance will make him 
young again." 

Ross's grateful acknowledgment of Dr Beattie's 
kindness, and his simple account of his reception 
at Gordon Castle will be read with interest. The 
latter part of the letter applies for a recommenda- 
tion to "Sandy Thomson, who was thinking of 
applying for the then vacant school of Fochabers." 
This letter is dated at Gordon Castle, 6th July 
1778:— 

" Dear Sir, — I arrived at Gordon Castle Friday 
afternoon, went to Mr Ross, who, on reading your 
letter, said he would go down to the castle in a 
little, and tell the Duchess that I was come, and 



64 Life of Ross. 



that I might then wait at my quarters till she 
should send for me. Accordingly a servant came 
at night, desiring me to come down next day be- 
twixt ten and eleven, which I did, and was carried 
up to a room where were the Duke, Lady Maxwell, 
and the Duchess, who soon made me easy by her 
standing up and smiling on me. I gave her your 
letter, which she presently read ; I then presented 
my copies, which she commended for their ele- 
gance, scarce thinking they could be so well done 
at Aberdeen. I found by the behaviour of the 
house that orders had been given to take care of 
me, as I met with the utmost of discretion. Sun- 
day, I went to church, came back to the castle, 
dined, and signified to her grace's gentlewoman 
that I would be glad to be permitted to set off on 
Monday, (for the Duchess had desired me to stay 
some time, and write home.) Accordingly, on 
Sunday's evening I was called up-stairs again, when 
the Duke and Duchess talked very freely and easily 
with me; and, on parting with me, she slipt a 
pocket-book, as she called it, into my hand, saying, 
'I make you a present of a pocket-book; pray 
accept it.' It was elegant, indeed, of itself, but 
covered fifteen guinea notes, which considerably 
heightened the value of it. This, Sir, I owe to 
your goodness, for which you have my 1 sincere 
thanks, and will while I live. Saturday night 
and Sunday night I slept in the castle — that 
wonder of a house. Having my grandson, Sandy 



Life of Ross. 65 



Thomson, schoolmaster at Glenmuick along with 
me," &c. 

His grandson tells us that " he returned to Loch- 
lee in good health, and with great satisfaction." 

His aged partner would sympathise with him in 
the satisfaction produced by this agreeable journey; 
but after she had passed with him through all the 
chequered events of domestic life for upwards of 
fifty years, she was removed from him the following 
year, at the advanced age of seventy-seven, — Mr 
Thomson says, eighty-two. The stone which he 
erected to her memory far surpasses all around it 
in the superiority of its workmanship, and elabora- 
tion of its ornaments, bearing no indirect evidence 
of the affection of the husband, and the easy cir- 
cumstances of the poet. It originally stood at the 
south-east corner of the church ; but it was dis- 
placed by the erection of the stone to his own 
memory, to which it now stands opposite, against 
the churchyard wall, as the visitor enters the gate. 
It bears the following inscription : — 

"This stone was erected by 

Mr Alexr. Ross, Schoolmaster at Lochlee, 

in Memory of Jean Catanach, his Spouse, here interr'd, 

who died May 5th, 1779, aged 77 years. 

" What's mortal here Death in his right would have it, 
The spiritual part returns to God who gave it ; 
Which both at parting did their hopes retain, 
That they in glory would unite again, 
To reap the harvest of their Faith and Love, 
And join the song of the Redeem' d above. " 

H 



66 Life of Ross. 



Although he was himself now in his eightieth 
year, yet his mental vigour was not abated, nor his 
love of literature impaired ; for, as we learn from 
the preface which he prefixed to his version of 
Ramsay's " Poemata Sacra," he began that under- 
taking when he was " going his eighty-second year." 
Three years more, however, had so vigorously as- 
sailed the clay house of his tabernacle, that the 
process of dissolution became apparent. His 
grandson tells us, that during the time which, on 
account of increasing weakness, he stood so much 
in need of some proper person to attend and take 
care of him, " his second daughter, then a widow, 
was providentially sent for that purpose." 

This language, which might have been more 
explicit, would certainly suggest that his daughter 
came to live with him in his own house ; but Mr 
Jervise, in his " Land of the Lindsays," has stated 
that Ross went to live with his daughter at Busk- 
head, a farm-steading on the right bank of the Esk, 
opposite to the mouth of the Tarf, and died there. 
In answer to our inquiry, he obligingly stated that 
his authority was merely oral tradition. We have 
made particular inquiry at several parties most 
likely to be acquainted with this matter, and some 
friends have been kind enough to make others for 
us, and no evidence has been found that ever his 
daughter lived at Buskhead, or that he ever re- 
moved from his own cottage till he died. A mem- 



Life of Ross. 67 



ber of an intelligent family of the name of Chris- 
tison, with whom, as will afterwards be proved, 
Mr Ross lived on intimate terms, expressly de- 
clares that he died in his own house. This event 
occurred on the 29th May 1784, when, having 
entered a few weeks into his eighty-sixth year, he 
breathed his last with the composure of a man at 
peace with the world, and the hope of a believer 
in the only Mediator. As his remains had been 
deposited in the same grave with those of his wife, 
so the stone he had erected to her memory had, 
apparently, been considered as sufficient for both ; 
for it was not till about sixty years after his de- 
cease that a few of his admirers thought of erecting 
an appropriate monument to his own memory. 
When this was at last accomplished, the stone 
was, singularly enough, set up in the burying- 
ground of the new parish church, at least a mile 
from the place where his honoured dust had been 
interred, as if it had been rather intended to orna- 
ment the church than to honour the poet. This 
incongruity having been pointed out to the Earl of 
Dalhousie, the mistake was rectified about the 
year 1854, when the stone was removed to the 
common grave of himself, his wife, and those of 
his children who had died in their infancy. 

It is a plain slab of polished Aberdeen granite, 
of the ordinary dimensions, and bears the follow- 
ing inscription : — 



58 L ife of Ross. 



"Erected 

To the Memory of 

Alexander Ross, A.M., 

Schoolmaster at Lochlee, 

Author of 'Lindy and Nory;' or, 

the ' Fortunate Shepherdess,' 

and other Poems in the Scottish Dialect. 

Born, April 1699. 

Died, May 1784. 

" How finely nature aye he pain tit, 
O' sense in rhyme he ne'er was stintit, 
An' to the heart he always sent it, 
Wi' might an' main ; 
An' no ae line he e'er inventit, 
Need ane offen' ! " 

We regret that this stone, so creditable to the 
feelings and liberality of those who erected it, does 
not either state the fact that it was erected by the 
subscriptions of a number of the poet's admirers, 
nor the year of its erection. 

In drawing these remarks to a close, we shall 
now briefly advert to Mr Ross's family, his per- 
sonal appearance, and domestic habits. 

His family consisted of two sons, who died in 
infancy or childhood, and five daughters, one of 
whom likewise died at an early age ; but the re- 
maining four daughters were all married, and had 
families. Helen, the eldest daughter, was baptized 
on the 9th September 1734, by the itev. John 
Scott; and on the 8th November 1753, she was 
married to Mr George Thomson, schoolmaster in 
Glenmuick, in the church of Lochlee, by Rev. 



Life of Ross. 69 



William M'Kenzie, of Glenmuick. Their son, Mr 
Alexander Thomson, who accompanied his grand- 
father to Gordon Castle, was afterwards minister 
of Lintrathen, who, in his boyhood, resided eight 
years in his grandfather's house, published an edi- 
tion of " Helenore," with a life of the author, in 
18 1 2, and died the following year. Jean was 
married to one of the same family name with her 
mother, and her descendants are still on Tarfside. 

A gentleman, who spent his boyhood in Loch- 
lee, and to whom the writer of these pages would 
express his gratitude for the interest he has taken 
in this work, states that he had often talked with 
one who had frequently seen Ross, and still re- 
tained a vivid impression of his mild and gentle 
appearance, his kindliness and goodness of heart, 
and of the sort of wonderment with which the 
good folks of the glen used to regard the man who 
had written a book, and whose name was actually 
in print ! 

Our poet was rather below the usual standard, 
but was neatly formed and active in his habits. 
He had a ruddy complexion, the index of his uni- 
formly temperate habits and good health; a piercing 
eye, and an animated countenance, a somewhat 
irritable temper, the characteristic of the poetical 
temperament, that was easily allayed, as might have 
been expected in the Christian, who had learned 
not to let the sun go down upon his wrath. 

Mrs Grant of Carron, Speyside, who afterwards 



70 Life of Ross. 



became Mrs Murray of Bath, authoress of " Roy's 
Wife o' Aldivalloch," in a communication to 
Cromeck, says : — " I knew a good deal of Mr 
Ross, author of the ' Fortunate Shepherdess/ but 
it was many years ago. I still remember him with 
respect, as a man of most amiable character. His 
genius and talents speak for themselves in the 
above-mentioned beautiful little poem; and one 
cannot help regretting that such abilities were only 
born to ' blush unseen, and waste their sweetness 
on the desert air;' for in truth his humble abode 
was little better than a desert, although not in- 
habited by savages ; nothing on earth being less 
savage than a mere uncultivated Highlander." 

As the greater part of his poems are on scrip- 
tural or religious subjects, it is pleasant to be 
assured that this evidently arose from his convic- 
tion of the importance of such subjects, and the 
pleasure he enjoyed in the contemplation of themes 
divine. Sitting in the desk as precentor on the 
Lord's day, his grandson, who must, as a boy, so 
often have looked up to him with reverence, tells 
us that " he appeared to be all attention and all 
devotion, but was best pleased with such dis- 
courses as were strictly Calvinistic and systematic, 
and, whatever was the subject, contained in some 
part of them the scheme of salvation by [the] 
Saviour, and had the practical part enforced from 
Christian motives only." In short, that he agreed 
with a brother bard in his exclamation — 



Life of Ross. Ji 



" Talk they of morals ! O thou bleeding Lamb, 
The true morality is love of Thee." 

It is pleasant still further to be able to follow him 
into his retirement and family, and find that this 
devout appearance was not professional grimace ; 
for we are assured, on the same authority, that he 
arose early on the morning of the Lord's day, be- 
fore any of his domestics, and employed that 
" sweet hour of prime," in reading the Scriptures, 
meditation, and prayer. He regularly observed 
family worship, sending from his humble abode 
"the melody of joy and health," and pouring out 
the desires of his heart in Scriptural expressions, 
without a slavish adherence to forms, and with 
such a spirit of devotion as led those who united 
with him to feel that it was good to draw near to 
the throne of grace. 

He appears to have enjoyed his health and 
vigour to the last; for, as he had been wont to 
pay a summer visit to his eldest daughter every 
year, he continued this practice, travelling on foot 
a distance of sixteen miles, till past the seventieth 
year of his age. These visits were rendered all 
the more attractive by the pleasure he enjoyed in 
the company of Francis Farquharson, Esq., of 
Monaltrie, whose friendship he procured by his 
merit, and whose kindness excited the warmest 
gratitude of the poet. He frequently gave expres- 
sion to his feelings by writing copies of verses on 
the numerous instances of Monaltrie's beneficence; 



72 Life of Ross. 



but they were only shown to some of that gentle- 
man's intimate acquaintance, and never intended 
for publication. His habits were studious, and 
rhyming had become habitual to him. Whether 
there was anything peculiar in his studious modes 
we have not learned, although we think it is highly 
probable that he would enjoy a solitary walk by 
the margin of the loch, or wander amid the beauties 
of the glen, listening to the " couthy din " of the 
river, or rising to the brow of the hill, and listen- 
ing to the softened sounds that would blend into 
an agreeable harmony, in correspondence with 
the close of day, and croon into verse those im- 
pressions of the appearances of nature which he 
has so frequently introduced into his poems. On 
other occasions, from the nature of the work, he 
would more mechanically take his seat at his desk, 
and pursue his task till some intractable verse 
might lead him to suspend his labours ; but he 
would bear it in his mind as he was enticed to 
wander abroad, and, laying it on the anvil, he 
would turn it over and over, applying now the 
hammer and now the file, till he would overcome 
the obstacle, and return with pleasure to introduce 
his improvements. 

Having thus seen the close of the long and use- 
ful life of a man of letters and of genius, who, as a 
conscientious teacher, a sympathising neighbour, 
a loving husband, an affectionate parent, and a 
devout worshipper, adorned the doctrines of the 



Life of Ross. 73 



gospel by obeying its precepts, we shall now advert 
to his works, both published and inedited. 

With regard to the " Fortunate Shepherdess," as 
the author of which he is principally known, we 
may consider the language, the characters, and the 
scenery, and then advert to some objections that 
have been brought against it. As to the language, 
it is said to be " the broad Scotch," although it is 
neither the language of Ramsay nor Burns, neither 
is it what is known as the Buchan dialect, which 
may be regarded as the broadest in Scotland. 
Burns not unfrequently forgets his Scotch, and 
passes into unexceptionable English, and we can- 
not fail to perceive that there is such an elevation 
in the language of Ramsay as makes us feel that 
this is not the every-day dialect of Scottish shep- 
herds. Fergusson, again, frequently runs into the 
opposite extreme, and makes his characters speak 
a sort of burlesque or antiquated Scotch, that could 
not have been colloquial in the streets of Edin- 
burgh in his day. It is remarkable that none of 
the authors whose works are now under considera- 
tion was an uneducated man : for Ramsay was suffi- 
ciently acquainted with Latin to imitate the odes of 
Horace ; Fergusson finished a college curriculum ; 
Burns received a superior English education, and 
had acquired a smattering of French ; and Ross 
obtained the honour of graduation as a Master of 
Arts. We consider Ross's language, however, as 

more idiomatic and characteristic than that of any 

1 



74 Life of Ross. 



of the poets we have named ; we feel, in reading 
his work, that his language is neither elevated by 
education, nor degraded by affected vulgarity or 
antiquity; it is, in short, the ordinary dialect of 
the people whom he has so successfully repre- 
sented; and it has accordingly furnished a rich 
vein from which Jamieson extracted much valuable 
material. It is to be observed, however, that in 
the second edition he rejected not a few words 
that were perhaps becoming obsolete — such as f urn 
for whom, loor for rather, piece for though, gray- 
mercies for thanks ; while in a few other instances 
Scottish words were substituted for English — as 
ilka for every, kaips for meets, couthy for civil, gar'd 
for made, syne for then,fairley for wonder, boore for 
kept, sakeless for honest, wi?in , d for lived; and we 
now and then meet with an expression that rather 
belongs to an old book than to the district into 
which the poem conducts us, as shoop, loor by far, 
ferleyt ilka dele, which suggest to the reader Bar- 
bour, Wynton, or Chaucer, rather than the " hills 
an' howes " of Glenesk. Our opinion of the lan- 
guage of Ross is corroborated by that of Pinkerton, 
who says, " The language and thoughts are more 
truly pastoral than any I have yet found in any 
poet save Theocritus." Upon the who|e, it must 
be said that in his second edition, while he has not 
destroyed its pastoral character, the language is 
brought into nearer conformity to English, and 
the composition rendered more correct. 



Life of Ross. 75 



There is evidently in the work an attempt to 
discriminate character, as the author admitted in 
his "Advertisement ;" and we consider the attempt 
not to have been unsuccessfully made. That Ross 
was fully aware that such discrimination was neces- 
sary, is further evident from the preface to his 
unpublished " Religious Pastorals," in which he 
states that he wished to try how far he could keep 
up the characters of the respective parties whom 
he had introduced. Ralf, accordingly, is through- 
out a plain, simple shepherd, often overpowered 
by Colin's loquacity and worldly wisdom, and, al- 
though showing a little opposition at first, brought 
to admit that Colin saw farther through things than 
he himself did, and consequently unites with him 
in advising his son to fulfil his promise to Bydby. 
Colin, again, is "a sicker boy," and consistently 
maintains the character of a shrewd, selfish fellow, 
who first advises Lindy, with a hypocritical admis- 
sion that it was " wrang to lear fouk to do ill," to 
deceive Bydby, in order to obtain their freedom, 
and then, when their trick failed, urges him to 
marry her, either that they might escape the further 
ravages of the Kettrin, or recover their stolen 
cattle. Lindy, who made so favourable an im- 
pression upon us as an ardent, yet considerate lover, 
as well as a brave shepherd, yields, like a simple- 
ton, to the persuasions of Colin to give up Nory, 
and to the browbeating of the laird to accept 
Bydby, 



y6 Life of Ross. 



The character of the squire is well sustained : he 
is chivalrous to Nory, bold in meeting the Kettrin, 
and ready in his replies to Lindas objections to 
fulfil his promise to Bydby ; although, as he after- 
wards frankly admits, he had a selfish motive " in 
labouring to have it sae." 

Among the females, the most powerfully marked 
is undoubtedly Bydby : every one that meets her 
soon forms an opinion of her frank manner, her 
sarcastic answers, her defence of her own character, 
and maintenance of her own rights; and hence 
one calls her " snell," another " forthersome," and 
another "fiery." Her simplicity in accepting Nory's 
assistance in finding out Flaviana, and her astonish- 
ment on discovering her motive, are striking con- 
trasts; and we cannot but sympathise with her 
when she exclaims — 

" I might ha kent, had I not senseless been, 
That ye for noth wad not be hauf so keen : 
But, maks na, be the matter as it may, 
To stap your claim I have enough to say." 

Jean always commands our respect as a modest, 
sensible matron. We cannot but feel for her when 
we see her sitting by the fire, 

" Nae jot intil her hand, but greeting sair," 

when she believes herself to be deprived of both 
husband and daughter ; while the love of the wife 
and the affection of the mother are finely implied 
in her direction to Lindy : — 



Life of Ross. yj 



" And ilka gate ye gang, baith far and near, 
As well for Colin as for Nory speer; 
Alas ! I wat na what to bid you dee, 
Or which is dearest to me, he or she." 

Her motherly pride in describing the abilities 
and acquirements of her daughter, of which a dis- 
paraging account had been given by her father ; 
her modesty in refusing to sing, with her sensible 
observation, that " youngsom sangs were sareless 
frae an aged mou," are all in harmony with her 
character ; for Ross seems to have deeply imbibed 
the sentiment of his great master, who says : — 

" Oh, what an easie thing is to descry 

The gentle bloud, however it be wrapt 
In sad misfortune's foule deformity 

And wretched sorrowes, which have often hapt. " 

And this principle is again brought out in the well- 
drawn character of the "eldern dy," who was so 
much struck with the beauty of Nory, that she 
declared — 

" Blind mat I be, and I am now threescore, 
Gin e'er I saw the maik of her afore;" 

and was set a dreaming about bonny Jean, which 
led to the discovery that Nory was the laird's 
cousin-german, and thus saved him from the charge 
of having made a misalliance. The principle once 
more crops out when the author, in his concluding 
lines, says of Nory — 



?8 Life of Ross. 



" Her comely face, that look'd aboon her lot, 
A chance becoming her descent has got." 

The scene in which Bydby encounters the two 
men among the hills, affords a lively specimen of 
such piquant banter as is not unusual in such cir- 
cumstances ; and we have a singular proof, in the 
preface to the " Orphan," that Ross himself thought 
favourably of it. He says : — 

" Hence lang, perhaps, lang hence may cotted be, 
My auld proverbs well lined with blythesome glee ; 
As when the jampher, in my former tale, 
O'ertook a cabrach knibblach with his heel, 
And headlins stoited o'er into the moss ; 
Some reader then may say, ' Fair fa' thee, Ross,' 
When aiblins I '11 be lang, lang dead and gane, 
And few remember there was sic a ane." 

The interview between the squire and the Kettrin 
is also admirably and prudently managed, and em- 
bodies ideas that were afterwards introduced by 
Wordsworth into his verses on Rob Roy's Grave — 

"The good old rule 
Sufficeth them, the simple plan, 
That they should take who have the power, 
And they should keep who can." 

So when the squire asks — 

" But tell me this, how ye wad like the case, 
If others on yourselves should turn the chase ?" 

They are ready with their reply — 

" Say they, We know no reason but they might; 
The strongest side has aye the strongest right. 



Life of Ross. 79 



If we our side unable are to guard, 

Let them the booty have for their reward." 

The description of Nory is admirably delineated 
in every scene in which she appears : her tender- 
ness in binding up Lindy's cut brow ; her passion- 
ate lamentation for his supposed loss; her modest 
deportment with the squire ; her cautious inquiries 
at Bydby; her cold reception of the ardent em- 
braces of the faithless Lindy, — are all in strict har- 
mony with her character. There is great beauty 
in her dream, in which the coming events are in- 
geniously foreshadowed, and the deep impression, 
perhaps unconsciously, made on her heart by the 
squire, is delicately implied in the lines — 

" Great was the care this stranger took of me, 
And, oh, I thought him bonny, blythe, and free ! 
Dry claiths, I thought, he gae me to put on, 
Better by far, and brawer, than my own." 

But unquestionably the finest piece of descrip- 
tion in the whole poem is the squire's finding of 
Nory sleeping beneath the tree by the burn-side. 
The picture is complete. The painter is saved the 
trouble of inventing details ; he has nothing more 
to do than transfer it to his canvas, for the very 
colours are provided him. The whole is too long 
for quotation ; and, as shreds would give no idea 
of its beauty, we must refer the reader to the 
poem. To the same source we also refer him for 
the admirable description of Flaviana, which Sir 



So Life of Ross. 



Walter Scott thought fit to transcribe into his 
"Heart of Midlothian;" and on other scenes a 
few remarks will be found on a subsequent page. 

The denouement of the poem has been very gene- 
rally condemned as doing violence to our feelings, 
which had been so deeply interested in the growth 
and maturity of the pure and reciprocal affection of 
Lindy and Nory, and are then so rudely shocked by 
the disruption of those ties apparently by such mer- 
cenary motives on both sides ; but the case is sup- 
posable, and the means by which it is brought 
about are ingeniously contrived. We are well 
aware that the poet, instead of reproducing the 
painful scenes with which real life makes us fami- 
liar, should rather " sing of what the world will be 
when the years have died away;" yet Crabbe has 
gained no small applause and popularity as "nature's 
sternest painter, and her best;" neither are we con- 
vinced that a poet may not advance the interests 
of morality by painting, as the wisest of kings has 
done, the painful consequences of sin, as well as 
by describing the happiness of those who are guided 
by heavenly wisdom. Ross was perfectly aware of 
the objection that might be taken against this part 
of his poem, and appears to have constructed his 
" Orphan " according to the more approved model 
of crowning unalterable affection with conjugal 
felicity. He does not, however, intend that his 
readers should imitate Lindy's inconstancy, and so 
incur his disappointment, 



Life of Ross. 81 



" But rather to evince, when we pretend 
To gain by slight, that we shall lose our end." 

And he very characteristically concludes by re- 
minding us that, when with such tales we have 
recreated the overstrained mind, we should be 
found 

" Still saving room for graver subjects' right." 

To the blemishes of the poem, for which the 
author made a suitable apology in the " Advertise- 
ment " prefixed to the first edition, we have no in- 
clination, to advert. Almost the only imperfection 
in our sight is the courting scene, described by 
Olimund to his aunt, in which, as Beattie remarked, 
Ross was evidently out of his place; and its 
greatest imperfection, in our judgment, is the in- 
congruity between the characters that it professes 
to describe and the persons that are actually made 
to pass before us. Thus the scene is laid at some 
remote period, 

" Whan yet the leal and ae-fauld herding life 
Was not o'ergane by falsehood, sturt, and strife," 

and yet the whole action of the poem turns on the 
deceit of one of the chief characters, to which he 
was incited by one of those that 

" Boore love and lawty in their honest face ;" 

and most of the characters can, on occasion, depart 
from the simplicity of truth to serve their own pur- 

K 



82 Life of Ross. 



poses, from Nory in her childhood suggesting to 
Lindy that, in order to escape censure, they should 
say the fox carried off the lamb when he fell on the 
stone j to Lindy deceiving Bydby, at the suggestion 
of the man who was introduced to us as knowing 
nothing " but what was downright, fair, and plain." 
He seems to forget the golden age he purposed to 
describe, and has, perhaps unintentionally, given us 
a picture of the shepherds by whom he was daily 
surrounded. 

Ross expresses the hope that there is nothing 
base or vicious in his pages j and certainly they 
form a pleasing contrast to those of Burns, in the 
absence of those profane expletives that so pain- 
fully disfigure his poems. Ross, as might have 
been expected from his character, has almost no- 
thing of this, although he might have pleaded, as 
others have done, that this was characteristic of 
the people whom he undertook to describe ; and, 
strangely enough, there is more of this objection- 
able phraseology in the few complimentary verses 
of Beattie than in the whole of Ross's poems. 

With regard to the songs that were added to the 
first edition of " Helenore," they had no doubt 
taught " the rocks of Lochlee to yamour wi' 
melody" long before the publication of ( the " For- 
tunate Shepherdess;" and the general impression 
in the district is, that they originated in oc- 
currences connected with his own family. The 
most of them are still included in collections of 



Life of Ross. 8$ 



Scottish songs, although very great liberties have 
been taken in their reproduction. " The wife an' 
the wee pickle tow " is well known, but is far too 
long for modern taste; and hence it is greatly 
curtailed, and even marred, in modern editions. 
When it is reproduced, it ought, at least, to give 
the whole of the " auld wife's " experience of the 
" wanchancie beginnin' o't." The first stanza, 
which is ancient, is unequalled in description; 
and, in the eighth, there are all the elements of a 
scene that cannot but fill and please the imagina- 
tion — the return of spring, the sowing of the lint- 
seed, the old husband, at the request of his wife, 
going down to the how, and selecting a branch of 
the rantree which had grown withershins, that it 
might, both by the nature of the wood, and its 
anti-magical twist, defy the cantrips of Maggy Grim, 
are all represented in the happiest and tersest 
manner. The latter part of the song, in which the 
three daughters give their opinions of the matter, 
although displaying no small ingenuity in minutely 
describing the processes of preparing the lint, and 
embodying the sentiments of the peasantry as to 
the importance of manufacturing linen for home 
consumption, does not possess the interest of the 
former part. " To the Begging we will Go " is 
written with great fluency and force ; and the ad- 
mirable description of the equipment and tricks of 
the cunning gaberlunyie must have had more in- 
fluence in putting down the nuisance of " sturdy 



84 Life of Ross. 



beggars," that then infested the country, than all 
the Acts that Parliament passed against them. It 
is composed in the measure of an English song 
on the same subject, which is attributed to Brome, 
the quondam servant of Ben Jonson. The latter, 
however, consists of only eight verses, and has 
neither the full description, nor the pawky selfish- 
ness of Ross's production. "Woo'd an' Married 
an' a'" has had a singular fate. There are no 
fewer than three songs to this tune, each enjoying 
a measure of popularity. Ross's song has been 
ascribed to a lady who certainly did not write it ; 
and, with a degree of unaccountable carelessness, 
one of the other two has been substituted for that 
of Ross in the Brechin edition of his " Helenore." 
It contains a profane exclamation, which might 
have excited a suspicion in those who were ac- 
quainted with Ross's character, that it was not his 
production. The song is given both in the first 
and second editions of his poems — the principal 
alteration in the latter being the obvious improve- 
ment of placing the wooing before the marriage. 
Three songs of the first edition are properly enough 
omitted in the second, as their inferiority to the 
others is evident. " The Bride's Breast-knot " is 
not without humour ; and in the edition to which 
we have referred it has been supplanted by the 
popular song, " Hey the Bonny Breast-knot." An- 
other was on "The Taking of Havana," and is 
marred by the difficulty of finding double rhymes 



Life of Ross. 85 



for three short lines in the last strain ; and yet it is 
no small praise to say that the first verse will 
readily suggest a warlike song by a modern bard 
of high standing : — 

"What flag is't that now so gloriously waves, 
That storms and that tempests and oceans outbraves, 
With ardour impatient the anchor that weighs, 
And Britain's unwearied achievements displays ? " 

The last is also of a warlike character, and had 
originated in our military operations against the 
French in America. It is written in an exceed- 
ingly crabbed measure, and looks like the versi- 
fication of a despatch in the Gazette; but it clearly 
proves the interest our poet took in the affairs of 
the country, and his acquaintance with public 
measures, when the appearance of a newspaper 
must have been a rare sight in Lochlee. The 
following may be taken as a fair specimen, and 
may be further interesting, probably, as indicating 
the political leanings of the bard : — 

" Let great, ingenious Pitt never be forgot, 
Who wisely laid the great and successful plot, 
Which now retains his name, 
And that by justest claim, 
And which ever shall be great in America : 
We '11 drink his health, and hope for wealth, 

Through his auspicious name, 
Pursue his schemes, which are no dreams, 
Or do the actors shame, 
But still are crown'd with glory, and increase of fame, 
Throughout the spacious bounds of America. " 



86 Life of Ross. 



It has been the strange fate of Ross to be mis- 
apprehended even by those who have highly ap- 
preciated his genius, and justly commended his 
works. Thus Alexander Campbell, who has de- 
voted no inconsiderable space to extracts from 
his poems in his " History of Scottish Poetry," has 
nevertheless represented the squire as setting out 
to recover the cattle that had been forcibly carried 
off by the Kettrin from Flaviana; although the 
poet represents him as saying to his aunt, who had 
communicated to him the unexpected tidings of 
his father's death, 

" Ye ken yoursel that I the morn maun gang, 
And keep the things at hame frae gain wrang ; " 

he then promises to return as soon as possible, and 
directs his aunt to keep Nory "frae thinking lang," 
and to assure her that he would make good his 
promise to "gar the gueeds come dancing hame," 
but certainly not on that particular occasion, as the 
subsequent narrative clearly proves. Singularly 
enough, Lord Lindsay, in his admirable work, 
" The Lives of the Lindsays," who quotes largely 
from " Helenore," to show the state of society in 
Glenesk in times not fa? removed from our own, 
has fallen into the same error. Of Ross, however, 
he justly says, " There are passages in the poem 
which vindicate for the author a higher place in 
the list of Scottish poets than has as yet been 
assigned to him." While part of these sheets was 



Life of Ross. 87 



in the hands of the printer, reference was made 
to Ross's poem in the pages of the North British 
Review. The reviewer has not only fallen into the 
error of representing the " heroine as carried off" 
by the Kettrin; but he has also brought against 
our author a charge so novel and extraordinary 
that we must bestow a few words upon it. It 
could scarcely be credited that any one who had 
read the "Fortunate Shepherdess" could have 
hazarded the following statement : — " Another poet 
was much more untrue to his native hills, though 
he professed to sing of them. This was Alexander 
Ross, the author of the ' Fortunate Shepherdess.' 
That work is a remarkable testimony to a pheno- 
menon which might be termed absolute blindness 
to sublimity in scenery." What idea this reviewer 
has of the manner in which a poet should sing of 
hills we have no means of knowing ; but we are 
still of opinion, with Dr Beattie, that it is in describ- 
ing the solitary scenes of a mountainous country 
that our poet most excels. " Untrue to his native 
hills ! " why, the scene of his story is altogether laid 
among his "native hills," and no sooner are we 
introduced to Flaviana than our attention is directed 
to the fact that " on every hand the braes to right 
well up, wi' scatter'd busses raise ; " and not a day 
of the action of his poem passes over us, but, in 
the style of his favourite Virgil, we are reminded, 
either that the sun is " spealing the hill-heads " in 
the morning, or that in the evening " the shadows 



88 Life of Ross. 



from hill-heads are growing lang;" with Lindy we 
travel " through mony a wilsome hight and how," 
and seek with him at night such shelter as " thir 
rugged hills could yield;" with Bydby we have 
" wearied at the rugged braes and uncouthy heather 
•hills," and have been glad with her to reach "a 
high brae-head," from which we might probably 
see some human habitation; and with Nory we 
may have affectedly " scream' d at ilk cleugh, and 
skreech'd at ilka how," which Sir Walter considered 
the most appropriate language in which "a fine 
lady " could express her feelings on viewing moun- 
tain scenery; or with her laboriously "o'er high 
hills and fearsome cleughs we clamb," and have 
seen her heart ready to fail her when she and 
Bydby " wan the hight, and in the how " spied out 
"her father's bigging by a bonny know." But, 
leaving these brief allusions to be followed up by 
the reader of the poem, we would ask whether the 
minute description of Nory's clambering up the 
shady side of a hill in the morning, and her unex- 
pectedly meeting with the sun when she reached 
its summit, is like the work of a poet that was 
"untrue to his native hills;" or whether any man 
could have written it that had not traversed the 
ground, and experienced what he describes % — 

" On ilka hand the hills were stay and steep, 
And sud she tak them, she behoved to creep ; 
Baith wit and will in her together strave, 
And she 's in swither how she shall behave. 



Life of Ross. 89 



The fear o' Lindy wadna let her turn, 

The frightful craigs and mountains gar'd her mourn ; 

And now for faut and mister she was spent, 

As water weak, and dweble as a bent ; 

Yet try 't she maun, her heart it wadna sair 

To think but Lindy to look hameward mair. 

Up through the cleughs, where bink on bink was set, 

Scrambling wi' hands and feet, she takes the gate ; 

Twa hours she took, the langest of the day, 

On sic a road, ere she clamb up the brae. 

At last, when she unto the height had won, 

Fat kaips her there but the sweet morning sun ! 

Breathless and feckless, there she sits her down, 

And will and wilsome spied a' her aroun'; . . . 

Sae up she rises, and about she spies, 

And, lo, beneath, a bonny burnie lies, 

Out through the mist atweesh her and the sun, 

That glanced and shined in ilka pool and lyn." 

Let us now shift the scene. Nory and Bydby are 
pursuing their journey toward Flaviana, along a 
mountain-ridge, when they are overtaken by a 
thunder-storm, which the man who was "untrue to 
his native hills " thus describes : — 

" 'Tis now about the eleventh hour o' the day, 
And they are posting on whate'er they may, 
Baith het and meeth, till they are haling down : 
The sun he dips, and clouds grow thick aroun' ; 
All in a clap the fire-flaught blinds their een, 
The thunder rattles at an unco tune ; 
Hurl upon hurl, and just aboon their head, 
They on their faces fell as they were dead ; 
And just with this the bowden clouds they brak, 
And pour, as out of buckets, on their back. 
Now they conclude that here their turf maun be, 
And lay stane -still, not moving ee nor bree ; 



go Life of Ross. 



And for misluck, they just were on the height, 

Aye thinking when the bowt on them wad light. 

For twa lang hours in this sad plight they lay ; 

At last the sun shoots out a couthy ray ; 

Sae piece and piece they peep out as they dow, 

And see main ocean down into the how ; 

Fan up they stood, nothing but burns they spied, 

Tumbling and roaring down on ilka side, 

Wi' sic a fearsome hurl and reefu' rair, 

The neist thing to the thurmer in the air." 

These extracts ought to be sufficient to prove that 
the " phenomenon which might be termed absolute 
blindness to sublimity in scenery " is not seen in 
the poet, but in his reviewer, and that these and 
many other descriptions in the " Fortunate Shep- 
herdess " show that Ross wanted only the manual 
dexterity to have become an eminent landscape- 
painter. 

The reviewer has further stated, " it is all my- 
thical and fancy pastoral, a good deal like Bar- 
clay's 'Argenis,' which the author, who was a 
scholar, seems to have had in his eye." Barclay's 
" Argenis " is a romance, composed in Latin, pub- 
lished in Paris in 162 1, and translated into various 
languages. It is a political allegory, shadowing 
forth the state of Europe at the time, and espe- 
cially that of France during the civil wars of the 
seventeenth century. What resemblance there can 
be between the " Fortunate Shepherdess " and 
" Argenis," in its mythical character, we have been 
unable to discover, even after the reviewer has thus 



Life of Ross. 91 



put the key into our hand. If Nory is Britain 
during the civil wars of the eighteenth century; 
Lindy, the Pretender; the Squire, the Prince of 
Orange; and Bydby, the Popish Church, that 
seduces Lindy from his first love : we believe the 
reviewer is the first that has made the discovery, 
and we are confident the honour will remain with 
him. As to its being a " fancy pastoral," — what 
pastoral is not the offspring of fancy % 

The materials of Ross's pastoral were realities — 
the predatory incursions of the Highlanders into 
the lowlands, the kidnapping of children by gipsies, 
carrying off the shepherds, and keeping them pri- 
soners till they were ransomed, a laird's falling in 
love with a tenant's daughter — were all events with 
which the people in the districts with which Ross 
was acquainted were quite familiar, and the subject 
of their winter evening tales ; so that the poet had 
only to gather these fragments of local history into 
the kaleidoscope of his imagination and combine 
them into a pleasing and not uninstructive pastoral. 
So far from being " fanciful," frequent perusals of 
the work, and a careful study of the mind of the 
author, had led us to the exactly opposite conclu- 
sion, — that Ross's genius was not of the creative 
stamp in the highest acceptation of the term ; that 
he required facts to work upon, and that this was 
the cause of what many consider the unpleasant 
and disappointing denouement of his poem; for 
he was embodying in his verses a fact, and not 



92 Life of Ross. 



working according to the most approved models of 
fiction-writers. This conviction was strengthened on 
our discovering that his other work in the style ot 
" Helenore " — the " Orphan " — although terminat- 
ing after the more approved manner, was founded on 
facts that had occurred in the Glen ; and that even 
his songs were not " fancy's flights," but the em- 
bodiment of local, if not of domestic occurrences. 

But why seek a model in the " Argenis," since 
the author so pointedly refers to Ramsay's pastoral 
as his model, and " the mither of his care % " He 
modestly acknowledges, that " the ' Gentle Shep- 
herd's ' nae sae easy wrought," and that the " wim- 
pled wark " of scenes and acts would " crack a 
pow " like his, and that he would be content to be 
taught by his muse to write a less complicated 
poem, which, nevertheless, might please, and "mak 
friends of fremyt fouk." But if the reviewer was 
unwilling to admit Ross's own acknowledgment, 
that the " Gentle Shepherd " was the model of the 
" Fortunate Shepherdess/' most of the names that 
Ross has employed, as well as some of the senti- 
ments and situations, might have led him to the 
more probable conjecture, that the youthful mind 
of Ross had been more deeply impressed with the 
" Faerie Queene " than with the "Argenis." Thus 
the reader cannot fail to perceive the striking re- 
semblance between the introduction to the " Shep- 
herdess " and the beginning of Spenser's " Fifth 
Book," 



Life of Ross. 93 



'* Though vertue then were held in highest price, 
In those old times of which I doe intreat ; 
Yet then, likewise, the wicked seede of vice 

Began to spring ; which shortly grew full great, 
And with their boughes the gentle plants did beate : 

But evermore some of the vertuous race 
Rose up, inspired with heroicke heat, 

That cropt the branches of the sient base, 
And with strong hand their fruitfull rancknes did deface." 

So the Kettrins might have been found in the 

" Salvage nation, which did live 
Of stealth and spoile, and making nightly rode 
Into their neighbours' borders ; ne did give 
Themselves to any trade." 

Might not Nory, when discovered by the Squire, 
have been found in the following lines 1 — 

" They do arrive anone 
Where sat a gentle lady all alone, 
With garments rent, and hair discheveled, 

Wringing her hands, and making piteous mone : 
Her swollen eyes were much disfigured, 
And her fair face with tears was fowly blubbered. " 

Might not the application of the " stench-girss " 
to Lindy's wounded forehead have been discovered 
in the following? — 

" Into the woods thenceforth in haste shee went, 
To seeke for hearbes that mote him remedy ; 
For she of herbs had great intendement, 

Taught of the nymphe which from her infancy 
Her nourced had in trcw nobility." 

Spenser, as well as Ross and Ramsay, was ac- 



94 Life of Ross. 



quainted with the dropping of infants, so that 
" Bonny Jean" had a prototype in "Pastorella :" — 

" At length a shepheard, which thereby did keepe 
His fleecie flocke upon the playnes around 

Led with the infant's cry, that loud did weepe, 

Came to the place ; where when he wrapped found 

Th' abandon'd spoyle, he softly it unbound ; 
And, seeing there that did him pittie sore, 
He tooke it up and in his mantle wound ; 

So home unto his honest wife it bore, 

Who as her own it nurst and named evermore." 

The change produced on Nory, when dressed as 
the bride of the squire, that deceived even the eye of 
Lindy, might find its counterpart in that of Una : — 

" My ragged rimes are all too rude and bace 
The heavenly lineaments for to enchace. 

No wonder ; for her own dear-loved knight, 
All were she daily with himselfe in place, 
Did wonder much at her celestial sight : 

Oft hade he seene her faire, but never so fair dight." 

And might we not find a Bydby in Fidessa, 
pleading the promise of the Red-cross Knight in 
bar of his union with the fair Una 1 ? But where 
are such resemblances to end % and what would our 
literature be, were we to take the disjecta membra 
of any work of this kind, and point out the probable 
source from which they were taken % The evidence 
that Ross had studied Spenser with 'enthusiasm 
appears in the choice of the un-Scottish names he 
has given his characters. Thus we meet with 

" Faire Helenore with girlonds all bespredd;" 



Life of Ross. 95 



" Fayre Rosalind," also, is not far off; but, in- 
stead of a shepherd, it suggests " the widdowe's 
daughter in the glenne." The absurdity of apply- 
ing a name so well known among our poets as that 
of a woman to a man has frequently been pointed 
out as unaccountable in our author ; but when we 
remember that the scene of the poem is laid in the 
" land of the Lindsays," and the unbounded power 
they once wielded in the glen, it has occurred to 
us that, if the name was not anagrammatised, the 
contraction Lindy was a slight disguise of Lindsay. 
We readily meet with Colin, ("who knows not 
Colin Clout?") and it is not very difficult to re- 
cognise Ralf in Roffy, and in Ollyfant we have 
two-thirds of Olimund. Thus, a reference to 
Spenser easily accounts for the outlandish nomen- 
clature of this Scottish pastoral. 

But we are not yet done with the mistakes of 
the reviewer. In order to justify his assertion as 
to the blindness of Ross to " sublimity in scenery," 
he asserts, after admitting that his description of 
Flaviana shows that he "could paint with the 
pen," that he went down the glen for it, " describ- 
ing a scene that is purely lowland." We regret 
that the reviewer did not favour us with his opinion 
as to what part of the glen furnished the sketch that 
Ross has given us ; because we have taken some 
pains to discover the ground on which the action 
of the pastoral is laid, and have come to a settled 
conviction that, instead of going down the glen, 



g6 Life of Ross. 



(Glenesk, we presume,) Ross went up Glenmark, 
and found his Flaviana there, near a spot that 
will long be known now as the Queen's Well ; and 
what may thus be inferred from the poem we find 
confirmed by the tradition of the district. Thus 
Nory, having run up the glen, turned towards the 
east, scrambled up the hill, and, going down the 
opposite side of it toward the burn, " atweesh 
her and the sun," had got into the low ground 
watered by the Feugh or its tributaries ; while 
Lindy, better acquainted with the point from 
which the Kettrin were accustomed to come, held 
towards the west, till he came upon the trail of 
the cattle, and fell into the hands of the "reivers." 
We have no doubt that Ross had ground in his 
eye with which he was personally familiar, and 
that he has accurately described it, even to the 
plots of averns and the etnach bushes. The only 
point in which, either through negligence, or un- 
willingness that the scene should be too readily 
recognised, the author departs from reality, is, that 
wherever his characters are placed, Flaviana uni- 
formly lies to the north of them ; whenever they 
are in search of Flaviana, like Willie Gairlace, they 
are aye "hirplin towards the north." This may 
account for the remarkable fact, that, although the 
Loch was constantly before our author's eye, he 
never once alludes to it in his poem; and this may 
also explain what excites our "reviewer's" won- 
der, that he should have overlooked the " glories 



Life of Ross. 97 



of dark Lochnagar;" Ross was faithfully depicting 
a real scene, and neither Lochlee nor Lochnagar 
formed a part of it ; and he did not feel himself 
warranted to destroy the reality of this picture by 
dragging them into it for mere effect. 

Such raids were sufficiently remote, at the time 
when our author took up his residence in Lochlee, 
to cast that shade of indistinctness around them 
which fitted them for the purposes of the poet, and 
were yet comparatively so recent as to excite no 
small interest in the district; for one who had 
taken part in a successful attempt to recapture the 
spoil carried off by "a band of fierce barbarians 
from the hills " died only in the very year of Mr 
Ross's appointment. This was the raid of the 
Water of Saughs, on the upper part of the West 
Water, not above five miles from the scene of his 
labours. It has been concluded, from circumstan- 
tial evidence, that this encounter occurred about 
1690, or, according to others, 1703. Thirteen Ket- 
trin, headed by John McGregor, or the " Hawkit 
Stirk," a man of uncommon stature and strength, 
made a descent on the parish of Fearn on the Lord's 
day, and carried off a number of cattle. After con- 
sulting on the best means of recovering the stolen 
property, M'Intosh, a farmer's son, at the head of 
eighteen Lowlanders, set out on Monday evening, 
and next morning came upon the thieves cooking 
a young cow for breakfast. MTntosh closed with 
the chief of the Kettrin, and, with the assistance 

M 



98 L ife of Ross. 



of one of his associates, named Winter, overcame 
him, on which his followers fled, but were pursued 
and destroyed, when the men of Fearn returned 
with the recaptured spoil. Winter died in 1732, 
aged seventy-two years ; and his gravestone, in the 
churchyard of Cortachy, bears the following in- 
scription : — 

" Here lyes James Winter, who died at Peathaugh, 
Who fought most valointly at ye Water of Saughs, 
Along with Ledenhendry, who did command yt day ; 
They vanquis the enemy, and made them run away." * 

This is illustrative of the character that Ochter- 
lony gives of the men in Glenesk, of whom he 
says : — " Upon any incursions of the Highland 
Caterans, (for so these Highland robbers are 
called,) the laird can, upon very short advertise- 
ment, raise a good number of well-armed, pretty 
men, who seldom suffer any prey to go out of their 
bounds unrecovered." Edwards, also, writing so 
lately as 1678, represents the Angusians of that day 
as "fond of going abroad armed, insomuch that 
they seldom go out without bow, quiver, shield, 
sword, or pistol, and always have with them a kind 
of hook to knock down or catch wild beasts or 
birds, as occasion may offer." 

Through an inhabitant of the glen, we learn that 
the last incursion of the Caterans was made from 
the quarter that Ross has so clearly indicated. 

* See "The Land of the Lindsays," by Andrew Jervise, Esq. 



L ife of Ross. 99 

The robbers were followed and attacked by the 
glensmen in the Firmonth, but with loss both of 
cattle and of men. One of those who bravely fell in 
the contest was a bridegroom, whose marriage-feast 
was interrupted by the clamour of the invasion, 
and who, gallantly buckling on his brand, set out 
with his neighbours, never to return ; 

" And thus the day so blithe that rose, 
And promised rapture in the close, 
Did, ere its setting hour, divide 
The bridegroom from the plighted bride.*' 

As still further illustrative of this subject, we 
learned, when in the glen, that on one occasion, 
whether the last or not we did not ascertain, some 
of the glensmen who were taken prisoners were 
confined at Braichly till they were ransomed by 
the proprietors of Glenesk and Edzell, who, in 
order to raise the money, demanded from some of 
their tenants the prepayment of a half-year's rent, 
which was the origin of a custom that still prevails 
with respect to some of these farms, whose leases 
have not yet expired. 

These remarks, so unexpectedly called for, may 
be considered sufficient to vindicate our author 
from the charge that has so unjustly been brought 
against him, and therefore their continuation may 
be deemed as unnecessary as it is unpleasant. 



ROSS'S INEDITED WORKS. 




[E proceed now to give a brief account of 
such of the inedited works of Ross as 
we have had an opportunity of examin- 
ing. Campbell, in his " Introduction to the His- 
tory of Poetry in Scotland," states that he had 
examined the manuscripts we are now to describe, 
and dismisses them seriatim^ with such expressions 
as " poorly executed," " poor indeed," " this is a 
piece of quaint nonsense," " of little or no value," 
&c. Dr Irving, who appears not to have seen 
them, intimates that, " by some accident, they had 
fallen into the custody of a bookseller in Edin- 
burgh," and that " they had been represented as 
unworthy of the author of the ' Fortunate Shepher- 
dess.' " This is all the length we could trace them 
in contemporary literature, and we despaired of 
ever obtaining a sight of them. At the suggestion 
of a friend, however, we applied at the Advocates' 
Library, Edinburgh, and soon had the satisfaction 
of seeing them placed on the table before us. They 
are bound up in three small octavo volumes ; and, 



Ross's Inediied Works. ioi 

instead of classifying them, which could easily and 
naturally be done, into original poems, translations 
from the Latin, and versions of portions and books 
of Scripture, we shall rather describe them in the 
order in which they now occur. They have been 
all written in a neat, round, legible hand; each 
piece had been stitched into a cover of stout paper; 
and their brown colour and worn corners give suffi- 
cient evidence of their having been extensively cir- 
culated and much read. These separate pieces 
have been bound together in their original state. 

The first volume contains " A Dream, in imita- 
tion of the Cherry and the Slae." We conceive 
that the twenty-two introductory stanzas are the 
most imaginative of any of Ross's productions. 
He begins with an address to Montgomery ; and 
in the third stanza he thus describes his situa- 
tion : — 

" Alone, as musing thus I lay, 
Upon a pleasant summer's day, 

Beneath a birchen shade, 
The birds around me, with their sang, 
Sae sweetly through the bushes rang, 

That I reclined my head. 
A little stream ran purling by, 

With murmur calm and sweet ; 
The fair primroses charm'd my eye, 
So was my bliss complete. 
Invited, delighted, 

In hearing, sight, and smell, 
Whiles thinking, whiles winking, 
Mine eyes together fell." 



102 Ross's Inedited Works. 

He is then carried to various bowers, in which 
he beheld such celebrated authors as Douglas, and 
Buchanan translating the Psalms, and, like an- 
other Livy, writing the history of his native land ; 
but his eye falls upon "his dear Montgomery," 
who invited him into his bower, and, seeing that 
his visitor had a curious eye, he requests him to 
accompany him to Parnassus, and not to fear the 
roaring of the lions ; he represents Montgomery as 
giving the following description of the mount : — 

"This Mount Parnassus is by name, 
Of wondrous height, and noted fame ; 

And none that seek to climb 
But meet with lions in the way, 
That strive of them to make a prey, 

And tear them limb from limb. 
But he who rhyme and reason keeps 

Needs not their roarings fear ; 
In a whole skin he ever sleeps 
Who can such harness wear, 
But these who debase now, 

Or either one or both, 
To run here alone here, 
To bid I would be loath." 

Montgomery then desires his guest to shape to 
fly, the very thought of which alarms him ; but, 
on attempting a short flight, and receiving further 
instruction how to proceed, he makes another 
attempt, which is thus described : — 

" Instructed thus my wings I set 
In the best order I could get, 
And stretch'd them out anew. 



Ross's I nedited Works. 103 



My guide's directions I observed, 
As well my notice they deserved, 

And I more safely flew. 
Then with more caution I did guide 

My wings as I came down, 
And clapp'd them closely to my # side 
As soon 's I touch'd the ground ; 
As you 've seen, or I 've seen, 

A raven, unconcern' d, 
Descending and bending 
To what he had discern'd." 

Montgomery, as they journey on, thus describes 
a rival hill, that also claims the name of Par- 
nassus : — 

'"Tis true, there is another hill 
Which falsely by this name they call, 

And whence its votaries roar. 
They strongly for their right contend, 
And do their bastard mount commend, 

And magnify its power. 
But those that to our mount belong 

Can easily perceive 
Such bold pretenders to be wrong, 
Though numbers they deceive ; 
Instilling such killing 

Impressions in the mind, 
With lofty and crafty 
Embellishment refined." 

Having attained to such a height that Mont- 
gomery surmised " they had got above the wind," 
he favours his guest with a " thorough trusty per- 
spective :" — 

" With power and force to penetrate 
Through roofs, through walls, through door or gate, 
And all within to know." 



104 Ross's Inedited Works. 

What he was thus enabled to view is then gene- 
rally described : — 

" When I the glass put to mine eye, 
The wondrous sights I did espie 

Made all my head to reel ; 
Such various scenes the prospect drew, 
So odd, so rare, so strange, so new, 

All in a furious dreel j 
From every point the compass marks, 

And fifty more besides, 
My fellow-race, on various barks, 
Each other cross'd by tides, 
Some running, some shunning, 

From being ridden down ; 
Some weeping, some sleeping, 
Some seeking for a crown ! " 

Having proceeded thus far in the stanza of the 
" Cherry and the Slae," he begs Montgomery to 
allow him to use a simpler measure, lest the rhyme 
or the sense should suffer. Having readily obtained 
the favour he had so courteously asked, he now 
proceeds to describe the Reformation from Popery, 
and the various discussions to which it gave rise, 
and the sects which it occasioned, through upwards 
of four hundred heroic lines. 

As a specimen of this part of the poem, and as 
probably presenting Ross's sentiments on a subject 
that he could not have foreseen was to b,e so much 
discussed in the course of the next half-century, we 
present the following : — 

"Then a divine of the Geneva dress 
Fearless replied, ' My judgment I express : 



Ross's Inedited Works. 1 05 

In civil things I will my king obey, 

But of religious never yield the key ; 

To benefice I will no patent have, 

But what the people's free consent shall give ; 

'Tis them I serve, by them I '11 called be, 

No King nor subject shall present to me ! 

We have no right without the people's call ; 
And though there 's no occasion that we serve 
Before the altar daily, and yet starve, 
Yet from the people's choice our right must flow, 
As 'tis with them we mainly have to do ; 
And though, perhaps, they may not still agree, 
Yet must their choice be unconstrain'd and free : 
Let but the lot be always fairly cast 
Into the lap, and leave to God the rest.' " 

Having represented the teachers of the various 
sects as justifying, and even magnifying their differ- 
ences, he introduces a "subtle man," a free-thinker, 
who advises the people to leave these jangling 
doctors, and follow reason. On this, the doctors 
drop their mutual recriminations, unite against the 
common enemy, warn the people of the unsound- 
ness and danger of such doctrines, prove the ne- 
cessity of revelation under man's altered circum- 
stances, and show that the doctrines of the deist 
give no peace to the guilty conscience, so that his 
followers go on 

" Till all too late they find their gross mistake, 
And curse the doctors for the doctrine's sake ! 
Thus they Libertus' tenets did confound, 
And in one voice condemn'd them as unsound. 
The people all the sentence did applaud, 
And hiss'd to horror the delusive fraud ; 

N 



io6 Ross's Inedited Works. 



Yet some were found whose pride would never yield, 
Nor of their darling doctrine quit the field, — 
At revelation — at religion scorn'd, 
Or anything that piety adorn'd." 

And thus, after such an elaborate introduction, our 
poet somewhat abruptly concludes, without any 
intimation of the manner in which he descended 
from his giddy height. 

The effect of circulating such a tract as this, 
communicating the origin and tenets of different 
evangelical bodies, bringing forward their various 
defences, and concluding by showing their unity in 
opposing scepticism, it would be difficult in the 
present day to estimate; and that estimate is 
certainly not to be made by the want of compres- 
sion in the lines, or the imperfection of some of the 
rhymes, which would only offend the mere literary 
critic; and considerable portions of it even he would 
find remarkably free from both these faults. 

The next is a composition of greater length and 
higher pretension, divided into four portions. The 
author has been at a loss whether to entitle them 
" Colloquies " or " Dialogues," and we would take 
the liberty of calling them " Religious Pastorals ; " 
for the speakers are shepherds, and the subjects 
are principally the inspiration of the Scriptures and 
the necessity of regeneration. It bears date 1754, 
is introduced by a preface of considerable length, 
and was evidently intended for publication, as the 
author states that, after it had lain by him for a 



Ross's Inedited Works. 107 

considerable time, he "had allowed it to creep forth 
and show itself, without any ostentation, among 
the papers that are designed for general good." 

He further tells us that, according to his small 
reach, he sought the conversion of his fellow- 
creatures from sin, and that one point he would 
not give up, namely, " the power of grace in deter- 
mining and reclaiming the chiefest sinners, and 
which I have still used and recommended in all 
that in my colloquies have relinquished a sinful, 
and made choice of a godly, course of life." He 
concludes by trusting that, in addition to giving 
the unlearned Christian some assistance and in- 
struction, it may " provoke to spiritual fellowship, 
which, I persuade myself, when there is knowledge 
among some, and grace among the whole of a 
society of that kind, must be of singular use to 
promote serious godliness, strengthen the weak, 
and inform the ignorant." 

These " Pastorals " extend to upwards of sixteen 
hundred lines, heroic verse, and we cannot but regret 
that such a work should not have been published 
at a time when the doctrines it inculcates might 
have been peculiarly useful, as they are always 
important, and when poetical taste was not so fas- 
tidious as in the present day ; and, in opposition 
to the judgment of those who condemned it as 
calculated to injure the author's fame, we still think 
it might be given to the public with advantage. 
As a specimen of the style in which it is written, 



io8 Ross's Inedited Works. 



we select a passage, not because it is the most 
striking, but because it is just possible that it may- 
be so far autobiographical — describing the manner 
in which the author himself may have undergone 
that great change without which a man cannot 
enter into the kingdom of heaven. 

On one occasion he heard his faithful pastor 
preaching from the text, " The wicked shall be 
turned into hell, and all the nations that forget 
God," which greatly alarmed him ; but he was 
somewhat cheered by the declaration, that " with 
him there is mercy, that he may be feared." Hav- 
ing mentally prayed for mercy, and retired from 
church in much distress, he thus describes his 
conduct : — 

" Got home, I straight to a retirement went, 
And some good time in meditation spent ; 
My Bible then I gravely open spread, 
Resolved, that I with care its truths would read ; 
The place that first presented to my view, 
And which to me till then was fully new, 
Was, ' Let the wicked man his ways forsake, 
Th' unrighteous man his thoughts, and so betake 
Himself to God, and He will mercy have, 
And for his sins abundant pardon give. ' 
When I the sweet, refreshing truth had read, 
A blissful peace o'er all my frame was spread, 
With wonder struck, such comfort yet should be, 
In record kept for such a wretch as me ; 
Then straight upon my knees I fell, and spread 
My hands abroad, and thus to God I pray'd : — 
' O Lord my God, doth yet Thy holy word 
Such soul-refreshing promises afford ? 



Ross's Inedited Works, 109 

And shall not I break off my sins and mourn, 

And speedily unto Thy ways return ? 

Oh, help me to receive this call from Thee, 

And henceforth to Thy fear devoted be. 

For I resolve, Lord, help me by Thy grace, 

Above all other things to seek Thy face ! ' 

From that time until now, my care has been, 

Upon the powerful grace of God to lean, 

Each day so much I of the Scriptures read," &c. 

We trust that many of our readers will sympa- 
thise with us in our regret, that the man who, at 
such a time, entertained such sentiments, should 
not have qualified himself to occupy the pulpit 
instead of the desk ; and that, when he had so 
expressed them, they should have been confined to 
the glens of Lochlee, and should now be immured 
in the recesses of a library. The publication of 
such a work at the time when it was written might 
have been peculiarly useful, as the doctrines and 
duties it inculcates are truly evangelical ; and the 
fear that it would have endangered his fame as a 
poet should have been compensated by the hope 
of its rendering him more useful as a Christian. 

At the conclusion of this fascicle there is a 
metrical paraphrase of the thirty-fourth Psalm, in 
the same measure as the Scotch version, but some- 
what more fluent and paraphrastical. 

The next piece is a metrical version of the "Song 
of Solomon" without any preface. It follows the 
divisions of the chapters of the Bible, extends to 
about a thousand lines, is in the measure of the 



I io Ross's Inedited Works. 

Scotch Psalms also, and is not so much a para- 
phrase as a mere versification of the prose transla- 
tion. From its dirty appearance, it seems to have 
been extensively read. The following extract will 
show the style of its execution : — 

" Some dear memorial of me keep, 

A seal upon Thy heart, 
Or on Thine arm, that I may ne'er 

Out of Thy sight depart ; 
For love no rival can admit, 

As death it will engage, 
And jealousy therein exceeds 

The grave's devouring rage. 

" The coals that feed that passion dire, 

Like coals of fire have power, 
Whose heat, so vehemently intense, 

Must all before devour ; 
Rivers of waters cannot quench 

The fervent heat of love ; 
Nor floods of persecution drown, 

Or from its object move. 

" But though no means true love can quench, 

Where it has fix'd its reign, 
Yet, where 'tis wanting, all thy wealth 

Could not the bliss obtain ; 
The offer and the offerer 

In high contempt would be ; 
As love, of all the passions chief, 

Must not be forced but free." 

Next comes " A View of King David's Affliction, 
particularly of Absolom's unnatural Rebellion — 
Paraphrased in a Poem." It has neither preface 



Ross 's Incdited Works. 1 1 1 

nor date, and amounts to upwards of a thousand 
lines in heroic verse. 

We shall give as a specimen the following re- 
flections on the suicide of Ahithophel : — 

" Which act, although the ancients should commend, 
And as a great and gen'rous deed defend ; 
Though Cato's practice should it patronise, 
And Cleopatra should thereof make choice ; 
Though modern instances too many are, 
The action from heroic is so far, 
That it is base and cowardly, and below 
The principles that from right reason flow ; 
For, let us but inquire into the cause, 
That makes them thus infringe great nature's laws ; 
We find that some cross Providence prevails, 
Some disappointment comes, or project fails, 
Which proud unthinking spirits cannot bear, 
Or silly souls sink under out of fear ; 
The passions of the mind the reason cloud, 
And for mistaken ease together crowd, 
And in their hurry thus drive on their fate, 
And do the very thing they really hate ; 
Whereas, if reason were allow'd her sway, 
And with just balance did the matter weigh, 
And steer another way, the clouds would break, 
And guide men by this sad, this so absurd mistake." 

The next poem is entitled, "A Heavenly Breath- 
ing; or, a Respectful Act of the Soul to God," 
and only occupies three pages. It concludes with 
the following apostrophe to Providence : — 

"O Providence, none are concern'd to know 
Thy acts so much as mortals here below, 
No link, in all the mighty chain of things, 
But in Thine eye and at Thy pleasure hings, 



1 1 2 Ross *s Inedited Works. 

Is loosed or bound, set forward or reversed, 
Is toss'd or stopt, is gather'd or dispersed. 
To Thee we owe the principles of life, 
Which at Thy beck, await the fatal knife ; 
Vain that we are, our schemes with care we lay, 
As if subjected to no final day ; 
Grand plots and machinations we contrive 
To gain our ends, or those we miss retrieve ; 
When many times, amidst our busy cares, 
Thou slipp'st our link, and we fall unawares ; 
And with ourselves our schemes fall to the ground, 
And both together in the dust are wound." 

We now come to a poem which is in the same 
style as the " Fortunate Shepherdess," and of 
nearly the same extent. It appears to have been 
written on the impulse that the success of the 
" Shepherdess " had imparted to the author ; and, 
as he was well aware of the objection that had 
been made to the winding up of his former poem, 
he subjects the fidelity of the hero and heroine of 
this production to great temptations ; but enables 
them honourably to surmount all these trials, and 
happily unites them, after a long separation. The 
manuscript, having no title-page, begins with a 
versified preface, which occupies five pages. He 
thus acknowledges the delight which the success 
of his pastoral had afforded him : — 

" Happy, thrice happy has my Nory been, 
And many a bonny fairly has she seen, 
And has her place, nae doubt, in closets fine, 
Where gowd and turkey wi' sweet mixture shine ; 
In noble bosoms afttimes taks a nap, 
Or saftly lies upon my lady's lap." 



Ross 's Inedited Works. 



He once more invokes his muse Scota, and pro- 
mises that, should she again prove auspicious, she 
shall shine forth as the tenth muse ; and candidly 
admits that 

" Gryte is the heeze ye 've gien unto my fame, 
And 'mong the poets register'd my name." 

The difficulty of striking out a new path, and 
producing another original tale, is thus happily 
illustrated : — 

" When last my pen ye favour'd wi' a puff, 
I ran no likely risk o' speaking buff; 
Because before me there was widely spread 
All nature's stores in their pure, artless bed, 
Where at my wiss I might go through and cull, 
Gae by the warst, and up the fairest pull ; 

If I be found to copy o'er mysei', 

' That 's Flaviana o'er again,' they'll tell." 

We have then the title at the commencement 
of the poem, from which we take the following 
extract, premising that, in the first line, Donald's 
was deleted for Malcolm's, which, in its turn, gave 
place to " Cromwell's days :" — 

THE FORTUNATE SHEPHERD j OR, THE ORPHAN. 

" Langsyne, in troublous times, in Cromwell's days, 
When weirs and mister had harash'd the braes, 
When gryte an' sma' wi' pinching want opprest, 
Were forc'd to seek their bit where they could best, 
When households hail took a' the gate at anes, 
And, where there were nae mair, set-out their lanes, 
And sick as had gar'd fouk bareheaded stand, 
Stood now at poorer doors wi' cap in hand. 

O 



114 Ross's Inedited Works. 

'Mang sick 's were forc'd to this mishap to bow, 
Young Kenneth's case I here present to you. 

" A blooming boy was he, round fac'd an' fair, 
And like the threeds o' goud his yellow hair ; 
Stout limbs and round, an' firm as ony tree, 
Were his, an' of a' seeming eelist free. 
No linen kind had ever touch'd his skin, 
As few thir days had can that claith to spin. 
A linder coarse, cut out of hodin gray, 
Neist to his skin, as white as paper, lay ; 
A blanket of the same his shoulders clad, 
A spacious brutch before its fastening made. 
On shoon or hose for him was waird no cost, 
To save his youthful limbs from snow or frost, 
Through which with all indifference he wade, 
Nor of his road the least distinction made ; 
'Twixt five and six his eild then seemed to be, 
His leed, black earse — his carriage, bald and free." 

Kenneth is carried away from " some island, or 
far-northern nook," by a female beggar. They 
wander on till they reach Moray-land. Lodged in 
a gentleman's house, Kenneth is taken ill j and 
his guide, thinking that he will be here well pro- 
vided for, disappears one morning. Kenneth is 
kept in the family; and a fondness springs up 
between him and the young lady of the house, 
who earnestly and successfully pleads in Kenneth's 
favour, when he was to be dismissed on account 
of his rough treatment of the young lair ( d : — 

" Poor, honest younglin', only gain her nine, 
Ne'er dreiuu'J she was in love, 'cause she was kin'." 

Kenneth is sent to the hills to help 'Dick to 



Ross 's Inedited Works, 1 1 5 

tend the sheep, to be taught to read, and to con- 
duct himself with propriety. On a visit to the 
lambs with a young friend, the young lady, who 
is familiarly called Henny, has an opportunity of 
speaking with Kenneth, who, in addressing her, 
affords one of those descriptive touches so frequent 
in the " Shepherdess," but so rare in the " Shep- 
herd :"— 

' ' I scour the hills, the howms, the glens with care, 
An' mony a bonny burn an' strype is there ; 
Brae-lang green haughs, by ilka burn an' strype, 
An' hazel-nut heughs, an' hawthorn berries ripe, 
Here, in thick spots the ripe blae-berries grow, 
The bralans there like very scarlet glow, 
An', were ye there, the bliss wad be complete, 
An' ilka toil an' trouble wad be sweet. " 

This mutual attachment is discovered, and Ken- 
neth, dreading the consequences, does what Roger 
only threatened to do, breaks his crook and chanter; 
then sets off to the nearest town, and enlists under 
the name of True. The recruits are ordered to 
Flanders, and encounter a storm by the way ; but 
all arrive in safety. Kenneth soon distinguishes him- 
self, and is made pay-master sergeant. In a battle, 
he sees an ensign fall, and, rushing forward, pre- 
vents the colours from falling into the hands of 
the enemy, and is saluted by his colonel, Ensign 
True. Florella, a lady of great fortune, falls in 
love with him ; and, like another Bydby, " must 
let out the language of her heart ;" but True proves 



n6 Ross's Inedited Works. 

true. He, however, introduces the colonel, who 
soon marries the lady, and makes True a captain. 
After fourteen years' absence, Captain True returns 
home; goes to the old church; is invited, unknown, 
by Henny's brother, in the mother's name, to dine 
with the family; remains with them for some time ; 
makes love to the young lady; his suit is seconded 
by the mother, but steadily rejected by the con- 
stant Henny. At last he reveals himself, and the 
constant lovers are joyfully united. But now the old 
beggar turns up again, and reveals that the captain's 
name, is M'Kay, and that, as an " Orphan," he had 
been deprived of his property, "on Pomona's bonny 
braes," by his uncle. In the attempt to regain his 
property, he discovers that his colonel, to whom he 
was so much indebted, is the son of this uncle, 
and, consequently, Kenneth's cousin, and so the 
whole is wound up by an amicable adjustment of 
their respective rights. 

Such is a brief outline of the tale, which has its 
episodes that we have omitted, and a sufficient 
amount of intricacy to keep up the interest. There 
is considerable prolixity in the dialogues and so- 
liloquies, and an awkward repetition of the account 
of Kenneth's early love ; but still, as Campbell has 
said, " it is carried on with our author's usual ad- 
dress;" and, although our author, for a consider- 
able part of the tale, is on ground to which he was 
practically a stranger, still, we are not inclined to 
adopt the opinion of Beattie, that its publication 



Ross 's Inedited Works. 1 17 

would have endangered his reputation, while it 
might have added considerably to his humble com- 
forts. When recently in Lochlee, we ran over the 
outline of the "Orphan" in the hearing of a gentle- 
man of much intelligence and intimate acquaint- 
ance with the district from his youth. He informed 
us that these very events, at least in substance, had 
occurred to parties who lived and died within a 
short distance of the house where we then were ; 
and that, as the Captain and his wife originally 
belonged to Strathdon, their remains were conveyed 
to that locality. We intentionally decline to enter 
into detail ; but this confirms our opinion that the 
" Fortunate Shepherdess " had been founded on 
a real incident ; and hence the unpoetical denoue- 
me?it of that tale, for which the author has been so 
much blamed. The production we have just been 
analysing is more in harmony with the structure of 
works of imagination, in which merit meets its re- 
ward, and faithful love is crowned with happiness. 

The second volume contains " The Shunam- 
mite," founded on 2 Kings iv. ; it is written in the 
heroic measure, and occupies twelve pages : then 
" Moses," exposed in the ark of bulrushes, in com- 
mon measure ; and then " An Incitement to Tem- 
perance," in heroic verse, and only extending to 
six pages. 

We now approach a work extending to upwards 
of three thousand lines, bearing the following title : 
"The Book of Job, rendered in English Verse, by 



Ross 's Inedited Works. 



a Well-wisher of the Muses, 1761." In a preface, 
occupying five pages, we have the following ac- 
count of the origin of this version of the sublimest 
and most ancient of poems : " What invited me to 
try my hand this way was occasionally reading the 
thirty-ninth chapter of this book, when I found 
such a flow and run of poetical matter, that I must 
needs amuse myself by attempting to translate it 
into verse, and see if I could keep the author's 
beauties under the fetters of such rhyme as I might 
be able to render it into. After I had done it, as 
people are generally fond of their own brats, I 
would attempt the version of the first chapter, yet 
far from thinking to meddle with the whole book. 
However, I proceeded, and, at length, brought 
the work to a period." We shall present, as a 
specimen, a part of his version of the chapter 
which first arrested his attention : — 

*' Gavest thou his strength unto the stately horse? 
Gavest thou unto his neck its thund'ring force ? 
With all thy dread couldst thou him terrify ? 
And, as a grasshopper, make him fly ? 
Majestic glory from his nostrils flows, 
And with surprising force through them he blows ! 
Vain of his gait, he in the valley paws, 
And tells his strength is of his joy the cause ; 
And, void of fear, he prances o'er the plain, 
To meet the fury of the armed men. 
He mocks at fears, is not with these dismay'd, 
Nor of the glittering sword's approach afraid. 
The rattling quiver, massy shield and spear, 
Are noways powerful to awake his fear ; 



Ross 's Inedited Works. 119 

The ground he swallows in his fiery rage, 
Nor trusts the* trumpet doth the fight presage ; 
When round his ears the martial clangour blows, 
His pride awakens, and his ardour glows. 
Ha, ha ! he says, then smells the fight afar, 
The noise of captains, and the shouts of war !" 

Although all these lines are not equally happy, 
yet the last six would have done no discredit to 
any poet of that day ; and, if they have not the 
vigour of Young's version of the same passage, 
they have the merit of being more comprehensive. 

Passing now from poetry to prose, we have next 
" A Dialogue of 'the Right of Government among the 
Scots ; the persons, George Buchanan and Thomas 
Maitland." Mr Alexander Campbell says : — " It 
contains many judicious observations and shrewd 
remarks, pertinent and logical in no small degree." 
After giving an example, he farther expresses his 
opinion, that " it might be rendered a very valuable 
performance by the judicious use of the pruning 
knife, and a careful revisal of the whole." The 
contributor of Ross's life to Chambers's " Lives of 
Eminent Scotsmen," after quoting part of the above 
sentence, says : " The specimen given does not 
indicate the direction of Ross's political sentiments, 
nor does Campbell supply that information." The 
reader will admit that the specimen must have been 
very uncharacteristic of the work indeed, when he 
learns that the tractate is neither more nor less than 
a translation of Buchanan's famous dialogue, " De 
Jure Regni apud Scotos," which certainly needs not 



1 20 Ross *s Inediied Works. 

the application of such a pruning knife as Camp- 
bell could have supplied, and left no uncertainty 
in the mind of the Estates of Scotland, who, in 
1584, condemned it as unmeet to remain as a 
record of truth to posterity, nor in that of Sir 
James Mackintosh, who thus characterises it : — 
" The principles of popular politics, and the 
maxims of a free government, are delivered with a 
precision, and enforced with an energy which no 
former age had equalled, and no succeeding has 
surpassed." In a word, it saps the foundation of 
the degrading doctrines of divine right and passive 
obedience, and establishes theiprinciples on which 
the British constitution of the present day is 
founded. We may here notice the disadvantage 
under which our author laboured, arising from 
his secluded position; for, although we cannot 
ascertain the year in which this translation was 
made, yet we know that it was finished at least 
twenty yeaffs before Macfarlan's translation was 
published. Buchanan's treatise had been trans- 
lated into English so early as 1607; and the last 
translation was made by Robert Macfarlan, A.M., 
author of the " Life of George III.," and published 
in 1799, and republished in Edinburgh so lately as 

1843. 

The third volume of our author's manuscripts 
contains the last of his productions. This is a 
translation of Ramsay's "Poemata Sacra," in blank 
verse. The volume consists of two copies of the 



Ross 's Inedited Works. 121 

translation; the former is, apparently, the first 
rude draft ; the latter is written with greater care, 
and exhibits numerous alterations in words and 
reconstruction of lines. The former copy, how- 
ever, is interesting to the biographer, as it ex- 
hibits, at the end of the serpent's address to Eve, 
the date 12th June 1781. The latter version 
had evidently been prepared for publication; for 
it is introduced by a preface occupying eight 
pages, from which we make the following extract : 
— " This poem, with several others, the works of 
our countrymen, distinguished in their day for 
their literary accomplishments, [no doubt the De- 
UcicR Poetarum Scctornm,~\ had been in my posses- 
sion for upwards of sixty years past, nor had I con- 
sidered the treasure I was in possession of, till 
more minutely observing the plan and spirit where- 
with the above poem was written — how noble the 
design was, and how intended to display the gra- 
cious ways of God to man, by bringing, as it were, 
to our view the result of the council of peace, the 
great mystery of godliness, God made manifest in 
the flesh. I was determined to peruse the same 
with diligence. The poet seems to have had in 
his eye to correct that fabulous account we have 
of the creation given us by Ovid, and to set in a 
truly poetical light the account given us thereof 
by Moses, to which, as the best recommendation 
of itself, we refer, could we be so happy as in 
any measure to do justice to the elegant original. 



122 Ross's Inedited Works. 

But to attempt the translation of a work of such 
poetical merit, at my time of life, going the eighty- 
second y tax of my age, that had so long escaped my 
observation, must, in the judgment of the world, 
be accounted unseasonable; nor can I withhold 
mine own (judgment) from it, however I behoved 
to yield to the prevailing impulse, and have some- 
how got through the same — I shall not say with 
that accuracy that becomes so serious an under- 
taking, yet (I) endeavoured to support the beauties 
of the original as far as was consistent with the 
circumstances I lay under, of the reach of our lan- 
guage coming short of the poet's elegancies, and 
of my coming short of what our language may be 
allowed to be capable of." 

Andrew Ramsay was one of the ministers of 
Greyfriars' Church, and Professor of Divinity in 
Edinburgh, during the troublous times of enforcing 
" the Perth Articles," the most repugnant of which 
to our Presbyterian forefathers was kneeling at the 
communion. As a singular illustration of those 
times, Calderwood informs us that Ramsay knelt 
at the service, but his wife did not, and that one 
of his associates in the ministry sat on the form, 
but kneeled with one knee ! We should infer 
from the brief notices we have of him in the 
history of those times, that he had the disposition, 
but lacked the courage, to be a reformer, and hence 
he is charged with inconsistency. His " Poemata 
Sacra" were published in 1633, and were dedi 



Ross's Inedited Works. 123 

cated to King Charles, whom he assures he had 
not allowed the muses to interfere with his graver 
duties j that he was then in the fifty-eighth year of 
his age; and that, although the streams of his 
genius were drying up, yet the hope of seeing the 
king had restored his mind to its former strength, 
of which the work he then dedicated to His 
Majesty was the evidence ! His principal poem 
treats of the creation, original happiness, the fall 
and redemption of man. From some of his minor 
pieces, we learn that he was the son of David 
Ramsay and Catherine Carnegie of Balmain, and, 
from other sources, that he was the father of 
Andrew Ramsay, who for many years was Provost 
of Edinburgh. Arthur Johnston, author of a Latin 
version of the Psalms in elegiac verse, compliments 
Ramsay, in an elegant epigram, on having united 
the peaks of Parnassus with the hill of Sion, and 
the waters of Jordan with the Castalian fount. 

Ramsay's poems were brought into notice in 
1750, when the notorious Lauder attempted to 
prove that Milton had plagiarised his " Paradise 
Lost" from preceding poets, and, among other 
quotations adduced to prove this assertion, was 
one of fourteen lines from Ramsay, with one in- 
terpolated, which was a translation of a line from 
Milton himself! The passage occurs towards the 
end of the Third Book, beginning with the line — 

" Judex, nova me facies inopinaque terret." 



1 24 Ross 's Inedited Works. 



The translation of this poem, which extends to 
upwards of two thousand lines, affords a remark- 
able proof of the aged translator's vigour and per- 
severance. We should have been happy to have 
given an extract from Ramsay's poem, together 
with a translation by Lauder, that the reader 
might have had an opportunity of comparing it 
with that of Ross, and of thus judging of the 
correctness of our decision, that the latter had no 
reason to shrink from the contest with the former ; 
but our space forbids. 

As a specimen of our author's success in blank 
verse, we shall give his translation of the open- 
ing of the First Book, beginning — 

" Quae massse dedit orsa rudis vis diva creatrix," &c. 

" What Divine power creative essence gave 
To the rude mass at first, assigning each 
Its proper place, disjoining earth from sea ; 
And how that same almighty Artist framed 
Spheres within spheres, and arch'd the heavens above ; 
And how the heaven born mind got first 
In Eden fair the seeds of mortal stain ; • 

And how the Son of God heaven's radiant towers 
Forsook, that He might lapsed man restore, 
And in eternal seats again replace, — 
Grand argument, indeed, and which would need 
A seraph's wings to give it proper flight, — 
Is what my mind proposes to display. 
With me, O holy Father, who at first 
The world's walls framedst with Thy mighty hand. 
And shapedst the ether to a flaming vault, 
Assistant be ; and Thou, the Father's Son, 
The Spring and Founder of a better world, 



Ross's Inedited Works. 125 



Thine aid impart ; and Thou, O Holy Spirit, 
In common kindly issuing from both, 
Propitious be, and slide into my mind : 
For I Apollo and his train despise, 
With all the vain and fab'lous deities 
The vot'ries of the muses use t' invoke. 
Let the blest Three, that I to times to come 
God's mighty deeds may properly declare, 
And hidden things becomingly unfold," &c. 

We think the reader will perceive little appearance 
of senility in these lines, and will perhaps think 
that it would only be performing an act of tardy 
justice to subject both the original and the trans- 
lation to the press. 

Dear old man ! In three short years thou wilt 
be elevated to a place among the " sons of the 
morning." The infirmities of age must now be 
stiffening that once active frame, and dimming the 
lustre of that once piercing eye ; but, instead of 
yielding to indolence or despondency, thou art 
finally examining those books that have so long 
been thy pride and solace. Thou canst still read 
a Latin poem and appreciate its excellence, more 
especially as it embodies " the song of Moses and 
the Lamb ;" the poetic ardour has not been 
chilled by the snows of fourscore winters; the 
harp is again taken to thy breast ; and, although 
thou shakest thy hoary head, yet we see the faded 
eye lightened up with all the poet's ecstasy. The 
few who heard thee have acknowledged that the 
fidelity and freedom with which thou hast per- 



26 



Ross's Inedited Works \ 



formed thy " labour of love," will stand a favour- 
able comparison with the efforts of others who have 
attempted a similar task. It must have been a 
pleasing and congenial work to thee, book in hand, 
to muse upon the creation of the world, the original 
happiness of man, his fall, and his redemption 
through Christ, whilst thou were standing by the ' 
grave of Jean Catanach, sauntering by the side of 
the Loch, or wandering amid the beauties of Glen- 
mark, or in thine own little garden, when fatigued, 

" Upon the camowyne to lean you doun ;" 
and, when the evening sun of that summer was 
glittering on the honeysuckle, and streaming through 
thy little window, thou wert sitting at thy desk, 
transcribing from memory the lines composed in 
the course of the day. Happy old man ! Would 
that all our poets had spent the day of life as 
virtuously and usefully, and sung as cheerfully 
their " evening hymn ! " 




RUINS OF ROSS'ts COTTAGE. 



HELENORE; 



THE FORTUNATE SHEPHERDESS. 




TO THE 

PRINTER OF THE "ABERDEEN JOURNAL." 




iIR, — I have read the " Fortunate Shep- 
herdess," and other Poems in Broad 
Scotch, just published at Aberdeen, by 
Mr Alexander Ross of Lochlee. This writer has 
given us the provincial dialects of Angus, Mearns, 
and Aberdeenshire, in great perfection ; and I am 
convinced his work will be highly amusing to all 
who relish that sort of composition. A nice critic 
might, perhaps, take exception at his plot, at the 
prolixity of some of his speeches, and at the im- 
propriety of some particular incidents and senti- 
ments ; but Mr Ross, in his preface, hath made so 
modest an acknowledgment of these, and the other 
faults which he thinks may be found in the per- 
formance, that it is impossible for a good-natured 
reader not to excuse them. Many genuine strokes 
of nature and passion, and many beautiful touches 
of picturesque description, are to be seen in this 
work. There is even an attempt at character, 
which in one or two instances is by no means un- 

Q 



130 Letter to the "Aberdeen Journal? 

successful. In his Songs there is an easy turn of 
humour and versification : some of them have long 
been known to the common people of this country, 
who sing them with much satisfaction and good 
humour. I beg leave to transmit to this facetious 
author, by the channel of your paper, the follow- 
ing lines, which may please some of your readers, 
and cannot, I think, offend any ; and am, Sir, your 
humble servant, 

Oliver Oldstile. 

June 1, 1768. 




THE PRINCE'S WELL. 



TO MR ALEXANDER ROSS, 

AT LOCHLEE, 

AUTHOR OF THE "FORTUNATE SHEPHERDESS" AND OTHER 
POEMS IN THE BROAD SCOTCH DIALECT. 



ROSS, thou wale of hearty cocks, 
Sae crouse and canty with thy jokes ! 
Thy hamely auld-warld muse provokes 
Me for a while 
To ape our guid plain country folks 

In verse and style. 




Sure never carle was half sae gabby, 
E'er since the winsome days of Habby. 
Oh, mayst thou ne'er gang clung or shabby, 

Nor miss thy snaker ! 
Or I '11 call Fortune, Nasty Drabby, 

And say, Pox take her ! 



Oh, may the roupe ne'er roust thy weason ! 
May thrist thy thrapple never gizzen ! 
But bottled ale, in mony a dizen, 

Aye lade thy gantiy ! 
And fouth o' vivres, a' in season, 

Plenish thy pantry ! 



132 L ines to Mr A lexander Ross. 

Lang may thy stevin fill with glee 
The glens and mountains of Lochlee, 
"Which were right gowsty but for thee, 

Whase sangs enamour 
Ilk lass, and teach wi' melody 

The rocks to yamour. 

Ye shak your head ; but, o' my fegs, 
Ye've set auld Scota* on her legs, 
Lang had she lien, wi' beffs and flegs 

Bumbazed and dizzie ; 
Her fiddle wanted strings and pegs, 

Wae 's me, poor hizzie ! 

Since Allan's death, naebody cared 
For anes to speer how Scota fared ; 
Nor plack nor thristled turner wared, 

To quench her drouth ; 
For, frae the cottar to the laird, 

We a' run South. 

The Southland chiels indeed hae mettle, 
And brawly at a sang can ettle ; 
Yet we right couthily might settle 

On this side Forth. 
The devil pay them with a pettle,f 

That slight the North. 

Our country leed is far frae barren, 
'Tis even right pithy and auldfarren. 
Oursels are neiper-like, I warran, i 

For sense and smergh, 
In kittle times, when faes are yarring, 

We 're no thought ergh. 

* The name Mr Ross gives to his Muse. 
t Or, May they be paiket wi' a pettle. 



L ines to Mr A lexander Ross. 1 3 3 

Oh, bonny are our green-sward hows, 
Where through the birks the burny rows, 
And the bee bums, and the ox lows, 

And saft winds rusle, 
And shepherd-lads on sunny knows, 

Blaw the blythe fusle ! 

'Tis true, we Norlans manna fa', 
To eat sae nice, or gang sae bra', 
As they that come from far-awa' ; 

Yet sma 's our skaith ; 
We've peace (and that 's well worth it a') 

And meat and claith. 

Our fine new-fangle sparks, I grant ye, 
Gie poor auld Scotland mony a taunty ; 
They 're grown sae ugertfu' and vaunty, 

And capernoited, 
They guide her like a canker'd aunty, 

That 's deaf and doited. 

Sae comes of ignorance, I trow, 

'Tis this that crooks their ill-fa' r'd mou' 

With jokes sae coarse, they gar fouk spew 

For downright skonner j 
For Scotland wants na sons enew 

To do her honour. 

I here might gie a skreed of names, 

Dawties of Heliconian dames : 

The foremost place Gavin Douglas * claims, 

That pawky priest ; 
And wha can match the First King James f 

For sang or jest ? 

* Bishop of Dunkeld, the celebrated translator of Virgil's Mneid. 
He died 1522. 
t The author of " Christ's Kirk on the Green," &c. 



34 L ines to Mr A lexander Ross. 

Montgomery* grave, and Ramsay gay, 
Dunbar, f Scot, % Hawthornden, § and mae 
Than I can tell ; for o' my fae 

I maun brak aff: 
'Twould take a live-lang summer day 

To name the half. 

The saucy chiels — I think they ca' them 

Critics — the muckle sorrow claw them, 

(For mense nor manners ne'er could awe them 

Frae their presumption, ) 
They need not try thy jokes to fathom, 

They want rumgumption. 

But ilka Mearns an' Angus bairn 

Thy tales and sangs by heart shall learn, 

And chiels shall come frae yont the Cairn - 

a-mounth, right vousty, 
If Ross will be so kind as share in 

Their pint at Drousty. 



* He wrote " The Cherry and the Slae. rt 

t The author of the " Thistle and Rose." 

% Author of "The Vision," a poem. [Ramsay.] 

5 William Drummond, author of " Flowers of Zion," &c. 



HELENORE; 



THE FORTUNATE SHEPHERDESS. 




OME, Scota, thou that anes upon a day 
Gar'd Allan Ramsay's hungry heart- 
strings play 
The merriest sangs that ever yet were sung ; 
Pity anes mair, for I 'm out-throw as clung. 
'Twas that grim gossip, chandler-chafted Want, 
Wi' thread-bair claithing, and an ambry scant, 
Gar'd him cry on thee to blaw throw his pen, 
Wi' leed that well might help him to come ben, 
And crack amo' the best o' ilka sex, 
And shape his houghs to gentle bows and becks. 
He wan thy heart, well wordy o 't, poor man ; 
Take yet anither gangrel by the hand : 
As gryt 's my mister, and my duds as bare, 
And I as sib as he was, ilka hair. 
Mak me but ha'f as canny, there 's no fear, 
Tho' I be auld, but I '11 yet gather gear. 



136 Helenore ; or, 



Oh, gin thou hadst not heard him first o'er 

well, 
Fan he got maughts to write the " Shepherd's" 

tale, 
I meith ha had some hap of landing fair, 
But, oh, that sang 's the mither o' my care ! 
Fat wad I geen that thou hadst put thy thumb 
Upo' the well-tald tale till I had come ; 
Syne led my hand alangst it, line for line, 
Oh, to my dying day, how I wad shine ! 
And as far 'yont it as syn Habbie pla/d, 
Or "Christ's Kirk o' the Green" was first essay' d ; 
And mair I wad no wiss ; but Allan bears 
The gree himsell, and the green laurels wears ; 
Well mat he brook them, for though ye had spaired 
The task to me, Pate meith na been a laird. 
'Tis maybe better, I '11 tak fat ye gee, — 
Ye 're nae toom-handed gin your heart be free. 
But I '11 be willing, gin ye bid me write, 
Blind horse, they say, ride hardy to the fight, 
And by gueed hap may come again, but scorn ; 
They are no kempers a' that shear the corn. 

Kind Scota heard, and said, Your rough-spun 
ware 
But sounds right douff and fousome i' my ear ; 
Do you pretend to write like my ain bairn, 
Or ony ane that came frae 'yont the Kairn ? 
Ye 're far mistane gin ye think sic a thought, 
The " Gentle Shepherd " 's nae sae easy wrought ; 



The Fortunate Shepherdess. 137 

There 's scenes and acts, there 's drift, and there 's 

design, 
And a' maun like a new-ground whittle shine, 
Sic wimpled wark would crack a pow like thine. 
Kind mistris, says I, gin this be your fear, 
Charge nae mair shot than what the piece '11 

bear; 
Something but scenes or acts, that kittle game, 
Yet what meith please, bid me sit down and frame. 
Gae, then, she says, nor deave me with your din, 
Puff, I inspire you, sae ye may begin. 
Gin ye, o'er forthersome, turn tapsie-turvy, 
Blame your ain haste, and say not that I spur ye, 
But sound and seelfu', as I bid you, write, 
And ready hae your pen when I indite. 
Speak my ain leed, 'tis gueed auld Scots I mean, 
Your soudland gnaps I count not worth a prine. 
We 've words a-fouth, we well can ca 5 our ain, 
Tho' frae them sair my bairns now refrain, 
But are to my gueed auld proverb confeerin', 
Neither gueed fish nor flesh, nor yet salt herrin'. 
Gin this ye do, and lyn your ryme wi' sense, 
But ye '11 mak friends of fremmit fouk, fa kens % 
With thir injunctions ye may set ye down. 
Mistris, says I, I 'm at your bidding boun'. 

Sae I begins, my pen into my hand, 
My lug just heark'ning, as she should command : 
But then about her there was sic a din — ■ 
Some seeking this, some that, some out, some in, 

R 



138 Helenore; or, 



That it 's nae fairly that I aft gae wrang, 
And for my ain write down my neiper's sang ; 
For hundreds mair were learning at her school, 
Some writing fair, and, like mysell, some foul. 



Whan yet the leal and ae-fauld herding life 
Was not o'ergane by falsehood, sturt, and strife, 
But here and there part o' that seelfu' race 
Boore love and lawty in their honest face ; 
Though lang or then lowns had begun to spread, 
And riefing hairship was become a trade ; 
Yet of the sakeless sort, that did na ken 
Naething but fat was downright fair and plain, 
A sonsie pair of lad and lass was found, 
Wha honest love wi' halie wedlock crown'd ; 
For joining hands, they just were feer for feer, 
And win'd to ither, as A to B, as near. 
For bonnyness and other gueed out-throw, 
They were as right as ever tred the dew ; 
The Lad was Colin, and the Lass was Jean, 
And fu' soon as the jimp three raiths was gane, 
The daintiest littleane bonny Jean fuish hame, 
To flesh and blud that ever had a claim. 
The name the weeane gat was Helenore, 
That her ain grandame brooked lang before. 
Gryte was the care and tut'ry that was ha'en 
Baith night and day about the bonny weeane. 
The jizzen-bed wi' rantry leaves was sain'd, 
And sic like things as the auld grannies kend ; 



The Fortunate Shepherdess. 139 

Jean's paps wi' saut and water washen clean, 
Reed that her milk gat wrang, fan it was green ; 
Neist the first hippen to the green was flung, 
And thereat seelfu' words baith said and sung • 
A clear brunt coal wi' the het tongs was ta'en, 
Frae out the ingle-mids, fu' clear and clean, 
And throw the corsy-belly letten fa, 
For fear the weeane should be ta'en awa. 
D owing and growing was the daily pray'r, 
And Nory was brought up wi' unco care ; 
The oddest fike and fissle that e'er was seen, 
Was by the mither and the grannies ta'en, 
And the twa bobbies were baith fidging fain, 
That they had gotten an oye o' their ain ; 
And bonny Nory answer'd a J their care, 
For well she throove, and halesome was, and 

fair; 
As clear an' cockin' as a water trout, 
And as she grew, sae did her beauty sprout. 

Fan Nory now a gangrel trig was grown, 
And had begun to toddle about the town, 
An honest neiper man, Ralph was his name, 
That lived on the same tenement with them, 
A dainty stirrah had, twa years out-gane, 
And he was now well ta'en the road him-lane. 
The callan's name was Rosalind, and they 
Yeed hand in hand together at the play, 
And as the billy had the start of eild, 
To Nory he was aye a tenty bield ; 



140 Helenore; or, 



Wad help her up, whan she wad chanee to fa', 
Wad gather gowans, and string them on a straw, 
And knit about her bonny neck and arms; 
And be as tenty to bear off all harms, 
As ever hen upo' the midden-head 
Wad tent her chuckins frae the greedy glaid. 
'Twas then blind Cupid did lat gae a shaft, 
And stung the weans, strangers to his craft, 
That baith their hearties fand the common stound, 
But had no pain but pleasure o' the wound. 
As they grew up, as fast their likings grew, 
As haining water d with the morning dew; 
Like was their pleasure, and alike their pain, 
And baith alike were sorry or were fain. 

When they were able now to herd the ewes, 
They yeed together through the heights and hows, 
Whileoms they tented, and sometimes they play'd, 
And sometimes rashen hoods and buckies made : 
And ilka night, as boughting time drew near, 
Nory yeed foremost, Lindy in the rear. 
But on a day, as Lindy was right thrang 
Weaving a snood, and thinking of nae wrang, 
And baith curcuddoch, and their heads bow'd 

down, 
Auld sleeket Lawrie fetcht a wyllie round, 
And claught a lamb anoner Nory's care ; 
She spy'd the thief, and gae the reefu' rair. 
Lindy bangs up, and flang his snood awa, 
And i' the haste o' rinning catcht a fa', 



The Fortunate Shepherdess. 141 

Flaught-bred upon his face, and there he lay, 

Nory pursuing as fast as she may. 

The cries and yamers gar'd the thief let gang 

The sakeless lamb, but nae without great wrang ; 

For tweesh twa hillocks, the poor lambie lies, 

And aye fell forret as it shoop to rise ; 

But that was naething to the dreary knell 

That pierced her heart, when her dear Lindy fell. 

Fan she came up, he never made to steer, 

Nae answer gae, fatever she wad speer ; 

Like to distract, she lifted up his head, 

Cried, Lindy, Lindy, waes me, are ye dead 1 • 

Nae answer yet, for he had fa'en a swoon, 

His face got sic a dird upo' the ground. 

An awful hole was dung into his brow, 

And the red bleed had smear'd his cheeks an' mou, 

But fusomever, in a little wee, 

Himsel he gathers, and begins to see ; 

And first he spies poor Nory greeting sair, 

And says, O 'oman, what maks a' your care 1 

Has the on-beast your lambie ta'en awa 1 

Nae that, she says, but 'cause ye've gotten a fa'; 

Up-by the lambie 's lying yonder styth, 

But maksna, that it 's no yoursel I 'm blyth ; 

For fan I saw you, I thought haleumlie, 

That ye wad never speak again to me. 

I bade you speak, but ye nae answer made. 

And syne in haste I lifted up your head, 

But nuver a sinacle o' life was there, 

And I was just the neist thing to despair. 



142 Helenore; or, 



But well 's my heart that ye are come alist, 

The lamb 's awa, and it '11 ne'er be mist. 

We '11 ablins get a flyte, and ablins nane, 

We '11 say, it was fan ye fell o' the stane, 

And sae sair hurt, as could no rise your lane. 

See gin ye '11 win unto this strypie here, 

And wash your face and brow with water clear. 

But a' the washing wad na stench the bleed, 

On haste then Nory for the stanch-girss yeed : 

For thae auld-warld fouks had wondrous cann 

Of herbs, that were baith good for beast and man, 

And did with care the canny knack impart 

Unto their bairns, and teach the useful art. 

Back with the halesome girss in haste she hy'd, 

And tentily unto the sair apply' d. [care. 

The bleed was stanch'd and then that stanch'd their 

A plantane leaf was clapped o' the sair, 

Now Lindy is as canty as a midge, 

And Nory at it did for blythness fidge, 

Taks frae her pouch a glack of bread and cheese, 

And unto Lindy with a smirtle gees ; 

He taks and eats, and Nory does the same, 

Then look their ewes, and back unto their game. 

By this time Lindy is right well shot out, 
Tweesh nine and ten, I think, or thereabout ; 
Nae bursen bailch, nae wandought, or misgrown, 
But snack and plump, and like an apple round. 
Like tap of lint his hair baith fair and lang, 
Like onie kurch down o'er his shou'ders hang ; 



The Fortunate Shepherdess. 143 

His cheeks they were as ony apple red, 

And his twa eyn as clear 's a crystal bead, 

Fu' o ? good nature, sharp an snell witha', 

And kibble grown at shaking of a fa'. 

Nae billy like himself a' round about, 

That, mows or earnest, durst gee him a clout. 

And Nory was the bonniest lassie grown, 

Was to be seen a-landward or in town : 

Three halyears younger she than Lindy was, 

But for her growth was meikle about a pass ; 

Her hair was like the very threads of goud, 

First hang well down, then back in ringlets row'd ; 

Pure red and white, her mother o'er again, 

And bonnier, gin bonnier could ha' been. 

Ye could na look your sairin' at her face, 

So meek it was, so sweet, so fu' o' grace. 

Her cherry-cheeks ye might bleed wi' a strae, 

Syne she was swift and souple like a rae, 

Swack like an eel, and calour like a trout, 

And she became a fairly round about : 

Fan she among the neiper bairns was seen, 

At greedy glade, or warpling on the green, 

She 'cfipst them a', and gar'd them look like draff; 

For she was like the corn, and they the caff. 

The girls about envied the lassie's fare, 

And wisht her skaith, but disappointed were. 

While thro' their teens the youth and maid 
advance, 
Their kindling eyes with keener transport glance. 



144 Helenore; or y 



But with mair wyles and cann they bet the flame, 

And aye as they grew up, sae grew their shame. 

The other herds young Lindy sair'd with scorn, 

And mair and mair stroove to blaw up the horn ; 

And gin together some o' them had gane, 

To play the penny or the putting-stane, 

If Lindy chanced, as synle was his lot, 

To play a wrangous or a feckless shot, 

Jeering they 'd say, Poor Lindy's maughtless grown ; 

But maksna, 'tis a browst that he has brown ; 

Gin he 'bout Nory lesser fyke had made, 

He had na been sae smearless at the trade. 

For they were a' just like to eat their thumb, 

That he with Nory sae far ben should come. 

Nor was 't a fairly, for she well meith be, 

Gentle or semple, a maik to any he, 

For flesh and bleed, fat needs there ony mair 1 

This was their grudge, and ground of a their care. 

The lasses, too, for they were ilka ane 

Wi' Lindy's features and his beauty ta'en, 

Taunted poor Nory, and began to say, 

They kent where they saw him and her sik day. 

Now Nory was as modest as a fleuk, 

And at their jeering wist no how to look ; 

And fan her jo she happen wad to see, 

Right dowie i' the dumps she 'd seem to, be. 

This thrawart carriage gar'd him wonder sair, 

And speir what was the ground o' this her care. 

With blushes that bespoke her love and pain, 

She maks reply, I warrant ye may ken. 



The Fortunate Shepherdess. 145 

Well, Nory, says he, never fash your thumb, 

Gin I hald heal, Ise gar them a' sing dumb ; 

And gin I get but mickle o' their din, 

I '11 try whilk o' us has the thickest skin. 

It sets them well into our thrang to spy, 

They'd better whisht, reed I sud raise a fry ; 

And for yon giglet hussies i' the glen, 

That night and day are floaning o' the men, 

Aye shakin' fa's, and aft-times o' their back, 

And just as light as ever the queen's plack, 

They well may had their tongues, I'm sure that they 

Had never ground the like on us to say. 

Tell Jenny Cock, gin she jeer any mair, 

Ye ken where Dick curfufn'd a' her hair, 

Took aff her snood, and syne when she yeed 

hame, 
Boot say she tint it, nor durst tell for shame ; 
That word, I think, will sair to stap her mou', 
And I mysell can tell, that that was true ; 
But fat's the matter 1 ? let them say their fill, 
Gin they speak truth, they canna speak no ill ; 
And gin they lie, they '11 hae the warst themsells, 
Let them ne'er halt till they win hood and bells. 

Thus he his Nory cocker'd up again, 
And cur'd her heart of a' its dreary pain : 
For when love dwells betweesh twa lovers leel, 
Nor good nor ill from ither they conceal : 
Whate'er betides them, it relieves their heart, 
When they get scouth their dolor to impart. 



146 Helenore; or, 



But yet, alas ! for all our lovers' arts, 
They could not hide what pass'd within their hearts. 
Baith mill and smithy had it now fu' rife, 
That Lind and Nory wad be man and wife. 
Even the auld fouks themselves were mair nor fain, 
Whan o' the bargain they began to ken : 
But tho' the young fouks liked ither sair, 
They never yet fand dint o' warld's care ; 
For marriage was far, far out of their sight, 
As their intrigue was honest and upright. 
They never minded mair, but meet and daut, 
And thought the time but jimp enough for that. 
Yet on a time, when they their tryst had made, 
To meet and crack aneth a birken shade, 
And were well set, and kisses gain' ding-dang, 
Says Lindy, We maun marry now ere lang ; 
Fouk will speak o's, and fash us wi' the kirk, 
Gin we be seen thegither in the mirk. 
I ken na, quo' she, we 're o'er young, I fear, 
Of house or hadding yet to hae the care ; 
Ye see how Rob and Jenny 's gane, sin they 
Hae pitten o'er their head the merry day. 
Ye shanna see, I 'm sure, a poorer pair, 
For back and belly they are pincht and bare. 
They 've gotten a geet that stills no night nor day, 
Their ae best cow I saw them lately flay, 
That for plain poortith lair'd intill a bog ; 
Besides, they hae na either ewe or hog. 
Sic snibs as that may sair to let us see 
That 'tis far better to be loose and free. 



The Fortunate Shepherdess. 147 

A better life I 'm sure we carina lead, 

Our meat and claith are baith bound till our head. 

Fan down 's our head, as we hae heard it said, 

Our house is happed, and our mailen paid. 

Quo' he, I grant 'tis a' true that you speak, 

But yet ae swallow does na summer make : 

Gin we hald heal, we need na dridder mair, 

Ye ken we winna be set down so bare. 

And then at hame the stocking is na sma', 

And nane to seek or get it but we twa. 

That T s true, and true enough ; but yet, quo' she, 

There is nae time o'ergane for you nor me. 

But what if some mischance sud cut us short, 

Quo' he, and after a' sud spoil the sport ? 

What if some wealthy chield sud chance to come, 

Just ready for a wife, as aye there 's some, 

And wi' your father sic an ear sud get, 

As gar him strike the iron when 'tis het ; 

How stand poor I, o'erta'en wi' sic a trick, 

To look like blunty, and the fupshaft lick % 

Na, na, quo' she, you need no hae sic fear, 

They ken you like me, and they ken you Ve gear : 

And gin ye wad but shoot it by a while, 

I ken a thing that wad your fears beguile ; 

But I think shame, because it speaks of me. 

Hang shame, quo' Lindy, and be frank and free. 

Well, nae langsyne, fan our auld fouks were laid, 

And taking their ain crack into their bed, 

Weening that I was sleeping, they began 

To speak about my getting of a man : 



148 Helenore; or, 



My father first did at my mither speer, 

Heary, is Nory fifteen out this year % 

Awell I wat is she, my mither says ; 

Had she a woman's wit, she has her days. 

Ha ! never an hour does Nory want, lat 's see, 

But bare five months, her saxteen out to be ; 

And gin ye mind, I but synteen was out, 

Fan we forgather'd, or just thereabout. 

I mind it well enough, and well I may, 

Atwell I danced wi' you on your birthday. 

Ay, heary, quo' she, now but that 's awa; 

Dainta, quo' he, let never warse befa' ; 

We 're well enough, and hae baith meat and claith, 

And o'er bauld to complain at other skaith. 

We manna aye be young, quo' she, that 's true, 

But fat think ye o' Nory's courtship now 1 

Lindy and she, I hear, are unco thrang ; 

'T 's nae secret now, the news is gaing ding-dang. 

Auld Maggy Procter speer'd at me last day ; 

I said I kent na, it might e'en be sae ; 

Young fouks'll aye be looking them about, 

And that they 're doing sae, I mak nae doubt. 

Well, heary, quo' he, but fat do ye think o't 1 

That it were true I wish I gae my coat. 

My mither says, I like the lad right well, 

For I like aye the verity to tell ; 

He may well sair, the best day e'er she raise. 

Quo' he, I ken nought unto his dispraise ; 

He 's a gueed lad, and that 's the best of a', 

And for the gear, his father well can draw ; 



The Fortunate Shepherdess. 149 

For he ; s nae boss, six score o' lambs this year, 

That 's heartning gueed, the match is feer for feer. 

That 's true, quo' she, but we '11 behad a wee, 

She 's but a tangle, tho' shot out she be ; 

She '11 be mair stivvage, and for docker meet, 

If she a toumon be behadden yet. 

Ye 'se get your will, quo' he ; 'tis nae far back, 

Sin Ralph and I about it had a crack ; 

They like the bargain just as well as we, 

And it 's nae matter fan the marriage be. 

Kiss o' thy mou' for sic a welcome tale, 

The lad replied, I wat thou 's get it leal ; 

Well mat thou thram, for sin thou 's been so free, 

I for a whyllie yet sail lat thee be, 

Tho' sair against my will ; for ye may ken, 

T' had drink frae drowth is sair against the grain. 

Now Flaviana was the country's name, 
That aye that bonny water-side did claim, 
Frae yellow sands that trindled down the same. 
The fouks were wealthy, store was a' their stock ; 
Wi' this, but little cunzie, did they trock ; 
Frae 'mang the beasts his honour got his fa', 
And got but little siller, or nane awa. 
The water feckly on a level sled, 
Wi' little dinn, but couthy what it made. 
On ilka side the trees grew thick and Strang, 
And wi' the birds they a' were in a sang : 
On ev'ry side, a full bow-shot and mair, 
The green was even, gowany, and fair ; 



50 Helcnore; or, 



With easy sklent, on ev'ry hand the braes, 

To right well up, wi' scatter'd busses raise : 

Wi' goats and sheep aboon, and ky below, 

The bonny braes a' in a swarm did go. 

Nae property these honest shepherds pled, 

All kept alike, and all in common fed. 

But ah ! misfortune ! while they fear'd no ill, 

A crowd of Kettrin did their forest fill ; 

On ilka side they took it in wi' care, 

And in the ca' nor cow nor ewe did spare. 

The sakeless shepherds stroove wi' might an' 

main 
To turn the dreary chase, but all in vain ; 
They had nae maughts for sic a toilsome task, 
For barefaced robbery had put aff the mask. 
Arao' the herds, that play'd a maughty part, 
Young Lindy kyth'd himsell wi' hand and heart ; 
But mair than master maws the field, and sae 
It fared wi' him, poor man, that hapless day. 
Three fellows bauld, and like to lions Strang, 
Were a' his wrack, and wrought him a' his wrang 
On him laid hands, when he dow do na mair, 
And wi' teugh raips they band him hard an' sair, 
Then left him lying till they sud come back, 
Hame for a brag intending him to tak. 
[Ere they came back frae dighting o' the rear, 
'Twas now as dark as it afore was clear ; 
They sought about, their seeking was in vain, 
And Lindy 's left, poor man, to pine wi' pain.] * 
* From first edition. 



The Fortunate Shepherdess. 1 5 r 

The fouk at hame by this time hae their care, 
And that the gueeds are byding, wonder sair. 
To hillock-heads and knows, man, wife, and wean, 
To spy about them gather ilka ane ; 
Some o' them running here, some o' them there, 
And a' in greatest mazerment and care. 
Nory, poor 'oman, had some farder gane, 
For Lindy fly'd, and standing was her lane, 
When up there comes twa shepherds out of breath, 
Raised like and blasting, and as haw as death. 
Wow, Nory says, what is the cause the day, 
That gueeds and shepherds hae made sic a stay ? 
O' gueeds and shepherds, 'oman speak nae mair, 
Dowie 's this day, and gae the reefu' rair ! 
They 're a' made hership, and for ought we ken, 
The herds may a' be feckly ta'en or slain ! 
At this sad news poor Nory taks the gate, 
What legs could lift, though it was dark and late ; 
She ran and scream'd, and roove out at her hair, 
And to the glen the gainest gate can fare. 
Aye as the lads came up the news they spread, 
I shanno tell you what effect it had ; 
For sic a ruther raise, tweesh riving hair, 
Scree ding of kurches, crying dool and care, 
Wr 1 thud for thud upon their bare breast-bane, 
To see 't and hear 't wad brak a heart of stane ! 
Poor Nory runs till she can run nae mair, 
And syne fa's down ; judge gin her heart was sair ; 
Out at her mou' it just was like to bout, 
Intill her lap at ilka ither tliout. 



152 Helcnorc; or, 



As lang as she had pith to rin or gang, 

O Lindy ! Lindy ! was her dowie sang ; 

Well, Lindy, bonny Lindy, art thou dead 1 

Ise never frae this hillock lift my head. 

O death, come also, and be kind to me, 

And frae this sad back-birn of sorrow free ! 

Cry what she liked, Lindy cud na hear, 

As she for him a quite wrang course did steer, 

Twa miles at least; for he had follow'd keen, 

Till him the ruffians sae did circumveen. 

In this poor pickle heartless Nory lies, 

Rowing her head, a mind to never rise. 

The night grew mark, the mist began to fa', 

The howlet shriek'd, and that was worst of a' ; 

For ilka time the on -beast gae the yell, 

In spite of grief, it gae her heart a knell, 

At length, what wi' the fright, and what wi' grief, 

And soupet spirits, hopeless of relief, 

Sleep bit and bit crap in upon her wae, 

And a' was quiet for an hour or sae ; 

But yet her heart was aye upo' the flought ; 

Sleeping and waking, Lindy filled her thought. 

Sair was she catcht, for ilka now and then 

She 'd start, and fumper, then lie o'er again. 

At last her dolour gets the upper hand, 

She starts to foot, but has nae maughts to stand : 

Hallach'd and damish'd, and scarce at hersell, 

Her limbs they faicked under her and fell. 

When she had thought awee, the dowie knell 

Strak till her heart, for Lindy, sharp and snell. 



The Fortunate ShcpJicrdcss. 1 5 3 



'Tis yet pit-mark, the yen! a' black about, 

And the night-fowl began again to shout ; 

Thro' ilka limb and lith the terror thirl'd, 

At ev'ry time the dowie monster skirl'd. 

At last the kindly sky began to clear, 

The birds to chirm, and day-light to appear : 

This laid her eery thoughts, but yet the pain 

For her dear Lindy, ever did remain. 

When light did sair her to see round about 

Where she might be, she now began to doubt. 

Nae meiths she kend, ilk hillock-head was new, 

And a' thing unco' that was in her view. 

Nor was it fairly, for she had na been 

So far a fieldward, or sick glens had seen ; 

For ne'er afore, by lang twa miles and mair, 

Had errands led her thro' the glens to fare. 

On ilka hand the hills were stay and steep, 

And sud she tak them, she behoved to creep. 

Baith wit and will in her together strave, 

And she 's in swither how she shall behave. 

The fear o' Lindy wad na let her turn, 

The frightful craigs and mountains gar'd her mourn. 

And now for faut and mister she was spent, 

As water weak, and dweble like a bent. 

Yet try 't she maun, her heart it wad na sair 

To think but Lindy to look hameward mair. 

Up through the cleughs, where bink on bink was set, 

Scrambling wi' hands and feet, she taks the gate ; 

Twa hours she took, the longest of the day, 

On sic a road, ere she clamb up the brae. 



154 Helcnorc; or, 



At last, whan she unto the height had won, 

What kaips her there but the sweet morning sun ? 

Breathless and feckless, there she sits her down, 

And will and willsome spied a' her aroun' : 

Of this sae couthie blink she was right fain, 

And for a wee relieved of her pain. 

But toil and heat so overpower'd her pith, 

That she grew tabetless and swarft therewith, 

And for a while shot out baith hand and foot, 

As she had been with an elf-arrow shot. 

At last the dwaum yeed frae her bit an' bit, 

And she begins to draw her limbs and sit ; 

And by the help of a convenient stane,* 

To which she did her weary body lean, 

She wins to foot, and, swavering, makes to 

gang, 
And spies a spot of averens ere lang. 
Right yap she yoked to the ready feast, 
And lay and ate a full half-hour at least. 
The feckless meltet did her head o'erset, 
'Cause nature frae 't did little sust'nance get. 
Sick, sick she grows ; syne, after that a wee, 
When she o'ercame, the tear fell in her ee, 
And till hersell she made this heavy main : 
Propines like this I '11 get nae mair again 
Frae my dear Lindy ; mony a time hast thou 
Of these to me thy pouches feshen fu' : 
Alas ! poor man, for aught that I can see, 
This day thou lying in cauld bark mayst be ; 
* "And by the help of an auld standin' stane." — 1st edition. 



The Fortunate Shepherdess. 1 5 5 



And wae's me for't; but I shall never stint, 

Till of thy chance the verity be kent ; 

Though to the warld's end my search sud be, 

Dead or alive, thy bonny face I '11 see. 

Sae up she rises, and about she spies, 

And, lo, beneath, a bonny burnie lies, 

Out through the mist atweesh her and the sun, 

That glanced and shined in ilka pool and lyn. 

A hail hauf-mile she had at least to gang, 

Through birns, and pikes, and scrabs, and heather 

lang: 
Yet, put and row, wi' mony a weary twine, 
She wins at last to where the pools did shine. 
Alang the burn, that busked was wi' trees, 
A bonny easie beaten road she sees. 
Upon the busses birdies sweetly sung, 
Till a' the doughs about wi' musick rung : 
They seem'd to do their best to ease the fair, 
But she for that was o'er far gane in care. 
Yet with the pleasant roddie she was ta'en, 
And down the burn she taks the road her-lane ; 
Weening at length she might some town espy, 
And sae amo' them for her Lindy try. 
Now very sair the sun began to beat, 
And she is like to sconfice wi' the heat ; 
The summer cauts were trembling here and there, 
And clouds of midges dancing i' the air ! 
The streams of sweat and tears through ither 

ran 
Down Nory's cheeks, and she to fag began : 



156 Helenore; or, 



Wi' wae, and faut, and meethness of the day, 
Sae sair beset she was, that down she lay. 
For her gueed luck, a wee bit aff the paid, 
Grew there a tree, with branches close and braid 
The shade beneath a canness-braid out throw, 
Held aff the sunbeams frae a bonny how : 
Here she resolves to rest, and may be die, 
And lean'd her head unto the kindly tree. 
Her hand she had upon her hafifat laid, 
And fain, fain was she of the coolriff shade. 
Short while she in this calour posture lay, 
When welcome sleep beguiled her o' her wae. 
Three hours that bliss to her was lengthen'd out, 
When, by odd chance, a hunter came about ; 
A gallant youth, and, oh, so finely clad. 
In his right hand a bow unbent he had ; 
A bonny page behind, hard at his heel, 
Carried a sheaf of arrows shod with steel, 
And knapsack clean, compactly made and feat, 
Slung o'er his head, well lined with gentle meat. 
As this young squire on haste is stending by, 
Wi' a side look he sees a woman lie ; 
Jumps in the gate ; but whan he saw her face, 
Sae sweet, sae angel-like, and fu' of grace ; 
He durst na budge, nor speak, nor gang awa, 
But stood stane-still, like picture on the ( wa' : 
His fill o' looking he could never get, 
On sic afore his een he never set, 
Though bluddert now with strypes of tears and 
sweat. 



The Fortunate Shepherdess. 157 

As he's thus gazing, Cupid draws a shaft, 
And proved himsell a master of the craft : 
With sic a twang he bent his golden bow, 
The red-het arrow pierced him through and through. 
Nae eek frae Nory's hame-spun kirtle came, 
To catch the lover, or to beet the flame. 
Plain was her gown, the hue was o' the ewe, 
And growing scrimp, as she was i' the grow. 
'Tis true, her head had been made up fu' sleek 
The day before, and well prin'd on her keek : 
But a' her braws were out o' order now ; 
Her hair in taits hung down upon her brow. 
To her left shoulder, too, her keek was worn, 
Her gartens tint, her shoon a' skelt and torn : 
And yet she makes a conquest as she lies, 
Nor had a glance been shot yet frae her eyes. 
Some fright he judged the beauty might have got, 
Or met with something hapless in her lot, 
And thought that she ev'n by hersell might be, 
And if awaken'd fiercelins, aff might flee : 
For she afttimes was starting through her sleep, 
And fumpering, as gin she made to weep. 
Still he looks on ; at length hersell she raised, 
And round about with consternation gazed. 
Upon the squire as soon 's she set her eyes, 
Up till her foot she bangs with great surprise, 
And was to run ; he claught her by the claise, 
And said, Sweet lassie, huly, gin you please : 
Nae wrang yese get, bide only till I speer 
What ye be seeking, or what fiiish you here. 



158 Helenore; or. 



The grip detain' d her, but she cud na speak, 

Her tongue for fear tint fettle in her cheek. 

Then saftly more the squire entreats her stay : 

At last she gae a sob, and said, Hegh hey ! 

Oh, let me gang, for I hae done nae ill — 

There 's nane here thinks it, says he, but bide still ; 

Tell me what ails you, and I '11 right your wrang, 

Be what it list ; and Ise no hadd you lang. 

My wrang, my wrang, gryte is my wrang, she says ; 

Gin e'er ye heard of Flaviana's Braes, 

Frae them am I, 'tis there my wrang is wrought, 

Wrang unforsain'd, and that we never bought ; 

Rank Kettrin were they that did us the ill, 

They toom'd our braes that swarming store did fill; 

And mair than that, I reed our herds are ta'en, 

And it 's sair borne o' me that they are slain : 

For they great docker made, and tulyied Strang, 

Ere they wad yield and let the cattle gang. 

And a' the time the tears ran down her cheek, 

And pinked o'er her chin upon her keek. 

To hear her tale his heart was like to brak, 

And sair intreated she wad courage tak ; 

That he wad gar the gueeds come dancing hame, 

And them pay deep and dear, that had the blame. 

Then with a smile he to the maiden says, 

I mind to hear of Flaviana's Braes : , 

Fan I was young, upo' the nourice' knee, 

My mammy used to sing a sang to me 

About the Braes, and Colin was the lad, 

And bonny Jean the name the lassie had : 



The Fortunate Shepherdess. 159 

Well were they roos'd, gin a 5 was said be true, 

And fat wat I, but they belong'd to you : 

Gin they were bonny, ye are sae, I see. 

The tear again came trickling frae her ee. 

Scarce could she speak ; at last she sobbing says, 

There was a sang ca'd Flaviancts Braes ; 

The fouks intil 't belonging were to me, 

And tho' I say 't, they could not sibber be : 

But sad 's the sang that we may a' sing now ! 

Of fouks and gear we 're rich alike, I trow. 

Fear no, sweet lassie, fear no, he replies, 

'Tis nae a' hopeless that in peril lies ; 

Tak ye gueed heartning, and lay down your fears, 

Come to this strype and wash awa your tears ; 

Ise mak you right enough. The kindly tale, 

To gang and wash, wi' Nory did prevail. 

But, O ! whan he beheld her face so fair, 

So sweet, so lovely, and so debonair, 

Gin he afore was o'er the lugs in love, 

Out o'er the head he now was, and above. 

Now ilka nook she fills within his heart, 

And he resolves that they sail never part : 

And to his page then says, Tak out some meat, 

This lass, I 'm sure, has more than need to eat. 

I thank you, sir, she says, but I maun gang, 

I fear that I hae bidden here o'er lang. 

Na, bonny lassie, strive na with your meat, 

Ye winna get this offer ilka gate. 

Tho' she was shamfu', hunger made her yield, 

Sae down they sat aneth the shady beild ; 



160 Helenore; or, 



Wi' his ain hand he cutted aff and gae, 

And eated wi' her, and gar'd her do sae. 

When hunger now was slaked a little wee, 

She taks hersell, and aff again she ; 11 be : 

Shamefu' she was, and skeigh like ony hare, 

Nor could she think of sitting langer there ; 

Weening that ane sae braw and gentle-like, 

For na gueed ends was making sic a fike. 

She hads her hand ; the squire, that had an eye 

Set close upon her, reed that she sud flee, 

Says cannily, I 'm sure ye are not sair'd, 

Here 's fouth of meat, eat on and do not spair 't ; 

Ye 're just as welcome as my heart can mak you, 

Ye need na fear that any skaith o'ertak you 

As lang 's I 'm here : for me, Ise do you nane : 

Nor do I think you safe to gang your lane 

Among thir hills, for ye may meet with skaith, 

There's fouk gangs here, that's abler than we baith. 

E'en sit you still, and rest you here with me, 

And I sail ward and warsel for you be. 

And tell me this, was ye a-field that day, 

Fan the wild Kettrin ca'd your gueeds away ? 

Na, na, she says, I had na use to gang 

Unto the glen to herd this mony a lang : 

Some beasts at hame was wark enough for me, 

Wi' ony help I could my mither gee, i 

At milking beasts, and steering of the ream, 

And bouchting in the ewes, when they came hame. 

Well, that 's all right enough, he says, but then 

How anter'd ye a fieldward sae your lane ! 



The Fortunate Shepherdess. 161 



For what could ye do, wand'ring up and down 1 
Ye might ha gotten wrang by rogue or lown. 
Or was your father or your brother there, 
That ye hae dree'd sae meikle cark and care ? 
She says, For brithers I hae nane o' them, 
And for my father, he was not frae hame ; 
But I to spy had wander' d out the gate, 
In fairly what had kept the gueeds sae late. 
Just as I 'm there, twa of our herds came by, 
Rais'd like, and gain' as fast as they could hy ; 
I speer'd fat held the gueeds sae wondrous 

late? 
They tauld me what had been their dowie fate. 
There me they left, and I, but any mair, 
Gatewards my lane, unto the glen gan fare, 
And ran o'er pow'r, and ere I bridle drew, 
O'eryeed a' bounds afore I ever knew : 
The night was dark, and dowie was my case, 
And I began to rue my reckless race : 
Whan day came in, and welcome was the sight, 
For fear maist kill'd me in the dead of night, 
I kent no where I was, yet on I yeed, 
But of my errand I came little speed. 

Well, says he, lassie, night '11 fa' right now, 
And in this wilsome glen, fat can ye do 1 
Tak ye my counsel, and gang on wi' me, 
And a kind lodging I sail lat you see : 
Nae man, but women, ye shall see therein, 
And be as welcome as my mither's sin ; 



1 62 Helenore; or, 



Syne, o' the morn, we something shall contrive, 

That will make matters right enough belyve. 

At thir kind wordies, Nory gees consent ; 

Sae up they raise, and down the burn they went ; 

He gae the page a nod to step before, 

And he himsell came on wi' Helenore. 

Kindly and couthy ay to her he spak, 

And held her in gueed tune wi' mony a crack : 

For he was ay in dread, that she might rue, 

And sae he strave to keep the subject new : 

Wad speer her name, and after that her eild, 

Syne wi' a smile says, Soon we '11 reach the bield, 

Thir shifts he us'd to quiet her demur ; 

But O, his heart stuck till her like a bur ; 

For, as her mind began to be at saught, 

In her fair face ilk sweet and bonny draught 

Cam' to themsells : his heart fand sic a bliss, 

He wad ha geen his neck but for ae kiss ; 

But yet that gate- he durstna mak a mein, 

Sae was he conjured by her modest een, 

That, tho' they wad hae warm'd a heart o' stane, 

Had yet a cast sic freedoms to restrain. 

And sae for fear he clean sud spoil the sport, 

Gin anes his Shepherdess sud tak the dort, 

He boore upon him, and ne'er loot her ken, 

That he was ony ways about her fain ; , 

Yet many a sigh and hegh hey was her ain, 

Upon the road, at ilka now and then. 

At last and lang, whan night began to gloom, 

And eery like to sit on ilka howin, 



llie Fortunate Shepherdess. 163 

They came at last unto a gentle place, 

And wha aught it but an auld aunt o' his % 

As he came in, says aunty, Welcome hame ; 

This day, I think, ye hae made dainty game. 

Where met ye, nephew, wi' that bonny lass ? 

Ye 're nae blate, lad, to hunt in sic a case. 

I 've gotten a pout, and brought her living hame, 

And gin I had na, wad hae been to blame. 

The story's lang to tell you how we met, 

But first ye '11 fetch us something ben to eat. 

I reed this lassie needs it very sair, 

Her meltit lang I ween has been but bare. 

To come alang sweer was she to intreat, 

And yet I kend her mister to be great. 

I promised her gueed quarters, aunt, and ye 

Unto the lass as gueed 's my word maun be. 

Syne aunty cries on Betty to come ben : 

See, lass, your cousin 's ta'en a braw muir-hen. 

Quo' she, A-hunting he may gae again ; 

Sic pouts as thir may make the hunter fain. 

Then says auld auntie to her dother Bess, 

Ye 're nae like this wi' a' your fecky dress ; 

She dings you wi' her hamely gown of gray, 

As far 's a simmer dings a winter day. 

Then auntie says, Sit down my bonny hen, 

And tak a piece, your bed 's be made the-ben : 

Ye 's ly wi' Betty, my ain dother there, 

Wha sees your bonny skin ye need na care : 

For hers beside, but like aum'd leather louks, 

Weel fells the lad that 's furthest i' your books. • 



64 Helenore; or, 



Says Betty, She shall mair nor welcome be 
To tak a share of bed and board wi' me ; 
And gin she like it, as I wiss she may, 
We sanna part frae ither night nor day. 
Says Olimund, (for so they ca'd the squire,) 
Gramercy, cousin, ye shall hae your fair. 
The first time I to town or market gang, 
Whilk, gin hights hadd, will be ere it be lang ; 
A pair of kissing strings, and gloves fire-new, 
As gueed as I can wyle, shall be your due. 
Says Betty, Hadds you ! but I think it best, 
That she and I slip down and take our rest. 

Now nane was there but auntie and him sell, 
And she says till him, I hae news to tell. 
What news 1 he says, I wiss they may be gueed, 
Of sic I 'm sure that I hae mickle need. 
Well, man, your father's dead. Aunt, gar me 

trow ! 
Reply'd the squire, wha tauld sic news to you 1 
Baith tale and tales-man I to you sail tell : 
Eight days aback a post came frae himsell, 
Speering for you, and wondring unco sair 
That ye had broken tryst in sic affair. 
I wrote him back, that ye yeed aff frae me, 
Wi' time enough, at hame in time to be '; 
And in gueed heal, and seem'd as sair agast, 
To hear the news, and fairly'd assa fast. 
This took him by the stammack very sair, 
His hands he wrings, and cries out dool and care : 



The Fortimate SJiepJierdess. 165 

He 's either by the kairds or gypsies ta'en, 
Or, what look'd likest, to the army gane. 
'Bout onie threap, when he and I fell out, 
That was the road that he was for, but doubt. 
Gin he has gane, as doubtless but he has, 
He '11 shortly gar us ane and a' cha' fause ; 
Wi' draught on draught by ilka Holland mail, 
He '11 eat a' faster up than tongue can tell. 
In sic a tune he bade, till at the last, 
The dreary thought him in a fever cast, 
Whilk wrought him sae, that in three days or less, 
He was full ready for his hindmost dress. 
By now I think ye need na hae great fear, 
That ye maun tak the lass wi' meikle gear. 
He was to blame, my brother as he was, 
Against your will to bid you tak the lass. 
Ay ! auntie, gin ye kent the bonny aught ; 
'Tis true, she had of world's gear a fraught ; 
But what was that to peace and saught at name, 
And whilk is warse, to kirk and market shame % 
For had my father sought the warld oround, 
Till he the very dightings o 't hod found, 
An odder hog could not come in his woy, 
Than for my truncher what he had laid by : 
An ugly hulgie-backed cankered wasp, 
And like to die for breath at ilka gasp : 
Her teeth, betweesh a yellow and a black, 
Some out, some in, and a' of different mak : 
Black hairy warts about an inch between, 
O'er-ran her airy phiz beneath her een : 



66 Helenore; or, 



Her head lay back, and a lang gab sat out, 
Wi' the addition o' a snivelling snout : 
And tak her a' together, rough an' right, 
She wadna been by far four feet o' hight : 
And for her temper, maik she could hae nane, 
She 'd gar twa paps cast out on ae breast-bane : 
And yet, say what I liked, nought would do, 
But I maun gang, that bonny chap to woo. 
My father he yeed with me at the first, 
But a' the time my heart was like to birst : 
To think to lead my life wi sic an ape, 
I 'd rather mak my tesment in a raip. 
But, ugly as she was, there was no cure, 
But I maun kiss her, 'cause I was the wooer ; 
My father briskly loot me see the gate. 
But I assure you, I look'd wondrous blate, 
And very thrawart-like I yeed in by ; 
A young man look sae blate ! says he, O fy ! 
Nor was it fairly, for her stinking breath 
Was just enough to sconfice one to death : 
But frae my father many a smack she gat, 
And I, just like to spue, like blunty sat : 
I canna say, but she was wondrous kind, 
And for her dresses, wow but they were fine ! 
And monie a bonny thing was in our sight. 
And a' thing that was there, was snug and tight 
Nae little wealth, I 'sure you, there we saw, 
And ilka thing was rich, and fine, and braw ! 
But for it a' I did not care a straw, 
And wad hae geen my neck to be awa. 



The Fortunate Shepherdess. 167 

At last and lang, as we are riding hame, 
My father says, Yon is a wealthy dame : 
What think ye, Mundy, winna ye be braw, 
When ye yon bonny things your ain can ca' 1 
Does not your heart ly to the bargain now, 
And hae ye not encouragement to woo 1 
A's well, I says, except what sud be best, 
And whan that 's wrang, what worth is a' the rest ? 
I grant, he says, she 's nae a beauty-spot, 
But he that wad refuse her is a sot : 
Tho' ye look'd shy, she wad get ten for ane, 
And I '11 engage, she '11 no be lang her lane : 
Her riggs '11 gar the wooers come ding-dang, 
And she '11 strike up wi' ane ere it be lang : 
Sae strike the iron, laddie, when its het, 
And a' the land, and wealth, and baggage get : 
Ye see her riggs run just unto our ain, 
'Twill make a swinging lairdship a' in ane : 
And, Mundy, she 's for you aboon them a', 
Sae, whan ; tis at your foot, man, strike the ba'. 
And mind you, billy, though ye looked dry, 
Ye '11 change your fashions, and gae sharp in-by, 
And daut her o'er and o'er; I'll wad my head, 
At the neist courting bout but ye come speed. 
But wha wad hae you whan ye sit sae dumb, 
And never open mou' to say a mum 1 
Ye maun mak o'er her, kiss her o'er and o'er, 
Say ye 're in love, and but her cannot cowr ; 
But, for her sake, maun view the lands o' leal, 
Except she pity, and your ailment heal, 



1 68 Helenore; or. 



But out o' jest, and in gueed earnest, lad, 
Ye maun gae forward, and the bargain had, 
Or else yese tyne whate'er ye had of me — 
There is nae other boot but it maun be. 
Syne in a little I maun gang again, 
And, whilk was warst of a', maun gang my lane, 
Am bidden court and daut, and seek the lass ; 

aunt, but I was at an unco pass ! 
But I resolved upon 't to put a face, 
And see gin I had cann to turn the chase. 

Well, how behaved ye % did ye gie 'r the mou', 
Says aunty, niest, wi' mony a scrape and bow ; 
Syne laid your arm athwart her hulgy back, 
And now and then to steal a quiet smack ] 

Na, by my sooth I ; I came fiercelings in, 
And wi' my trantlims made a clattering din, 
And hailst her roughly, and began to say, 

1 'd got a lump of my ain death this day ; 
Wi' weet and wind sae tyte into my teeth, 
That it was like to cut my very breath. 
Gin this be courting, well I wat 'tis clear, 
I gat na sic a teazle this seven year; 

And ye maun gee your answer just perqueer, 

I maun na ilka day be coming here, ( 

To get sic snifters ; courting 's nae a jest, 

Anither day like this '11 be my priest. 

Weil, quo' she, nephew, thae was wanton sports ; 

I hope ye gar'd the lady tak the dorts ? 



The Fortunate SJiepherdess. 169 

For sic rough courting I hae never seen, 

Sin I was born, a lad and lass between. 

Na, aunty, says he, she was not sae skeegh, 

Nor wi' her answer very blate or dreegh ; 

But says, I 'm wae ye Ve got so foul a day, 

But maksna, till 't grow better ye may stay, 

Though 'twere this month, ye 're very welcome 

here, 
Of what I hae, yese get the best of cheer. 

I think, quo' she, ye 're fairly nicked now. 
Nae hauf sae far, he says, as ye wad trow ; 
I tauld her that was kind, but then that I 
Nae for a night out of my bed could lie ; 
Or if I did, it would be seen ere day, 
There wad be mair than cause to rue my stay ; 
That I the reason did na care to tell, 
It was enough, I kent the cause mysell. 
Quo' she, I wiss I could your wanrest ken, 
'Tis may be 'cause you canna lie your-lane : 
Gin that be it, yese be provided here, 
Though may be nae sae gueed, but with as near. 
I now began to think she meant hersell, 
But how my stomack raise, I sanna tell : 
Na, na, quo' I, 'tis wi' ken'd fouk I ly, 
I never liked yet to gang astray : 
This night I maun be hame afore I sleep, 
Gin ganging winna do 't, though I should creep. 
Well, gin ye be sae positive, she says, 
I sanna urge, come back whene'er ye please : 



170 Helenore; or, 



Afore you aye your welcome ye sail find, 
And blame yoursell in case ye come behind. 
Ise see to that, I says, and afif I scours, 
Blessing my lucky stars, and hame I tours. 
When I came hame, the auld boy says to me, 
How hae ye sped 1 is Ketty frank and free 1 
As frank, I says, as heart of man could wiss, 
I hae nae fear that I my market miss. 
Well, Mundy, that 's a man, my father says, 
We 's hae you coupled, then, afore lang days : 
Gin this day fortnight we 's be cut and dry, 
There may be danger in 't gin we delay. 
Thus wi' my lad I play'd at fast and loose, 
And he begins to think that now I 'm douse. 
Content, says I, but I maun gang and see 
My honest aunt afore I married be ; 
And ye may mind, I tauld you crap and root, 
Fan I came here, and that I ne'er wad do 't. 
He gae consent, but bade me keep the day, 
And bring my cousins with me to the play. 
A' this was gueed, I anes am win awa, 
Resolved ere I gae back a' nails to ca\ 
Gueed was the counsel and advice ye gae, 
By helping me to shift that dreary day ; 
And bidding me out through the forest range, 
And pass the time till matters took a change. 
'Twas mair nor lucky that I was not here, 
Whan the auld man about me sent to speer ; 
And lucky, lucky was it that I yeed 
Out through the glens, and that I came sic speed. 



The Fortunate Shepherdess. 1 7 1 

Yon bonny creature that I fuish with me, 
Aboon a' womankind my wife shall be, 
Except she say me nay : now, aunt, ye maun 
Lend me a lift about her, gin ye can : 
She 's even now as wild as any rae, 
And wad need canny guiding ere she stay : 
Fan she gets up, it 's ten to ane but she, 
As she is on the flought, for aff will be : 
But ye maun strive the gully well to guide, 
And daut the lassie sair, to gar her bide.* 

But, nephew, quo' she, ye 're upon extremes, 
(Trying my lad,) and living upon dreams : 
This choice is just as unco as the last, 
And fouk '11 fairly at it just as fast ; 
A hair-brain'd little ane, wagging a' wi' duds, 
And looks as she had dropped frae the clouds : 
What will fouk say, to see you mak the choice % 
It will, I 'sure you, mak nae little noise. 

And fat care 1 1 let them say what they please, 
Gin we heed says, we '11 never sit at ease, 
Replies the squire ; and I hae heard yoursell 
Your sentiments another way to tell : 
That there in parents could be naething worse, 
Than bairns to marry 'gainst their will to force. 

* [Wi' some braw claise, to tempt her ye maun try, 
Ye sanna do 't for nought — Ise better buy, 
An' put into their place; spare ye nae cost, 
I mak you sure, your labour's nae be lost.] — 1st Ed. 



172 Helenore; or, 



Well, nephew, I hae done, replies the aunt, 
That is my judgment, I do freely grant : 
I like the lassie, Mundy, wi' my heart, 
And as she 's bonny, doubt na but she 's smart. 
The creature 's young, she '11 shape to any cast, 
Nae tree till it be hewn, becomes a mast. 

Well, aunt, ye please me now, well mat ye thrive, 
Gin ye her cuddum, I '11 be right belyve ; 
Ye ken yoursell the morn that I maun gang, 
And keep the things at hame frae gaing wrang. 
In any order when I things have set, 
I '11 back again return withouten let. 
Keep her in tune the best way that ye can, 
But never mou-band till her onie man ; 
For I am far mistaen, gin a' her care 
Spring not frae some of them that missing are. 
The greatest favour ye can do to me, 
Frae thinking lang will be to keep her free. 
Gin she grow weary, tell her I '11 be back 
Ere mony days, and gueed my promise mak ; 
Whilk was, that ever I should bear the blame, 
Gin I their gueeds gar not come dancing hame. 
I need na tell you how you should behave, 
But a' unto your glegger wisdom leave : 
Wi' thir injunctions, I bid you adieu, ' 
By day and dawn the morn the bogs I '11 view. 

Neist day, when light in thro' the window sprang, 
Nory bangs up, and cries, I 've lien o'er lang; 



The Fortunate Shepherdess. 173 

Betty, wha was upo' the catch, replies, 

Lie still, sweet Nory, 'tis o'er soon to rise. 

As they are cracking, aunty she comes ben, 

And smiling says, How slept my bonny hen % 

Betty, hae ye about her taen gueed care % 

Ye 're but a restless bed-fellow, I fear. 

Well hae I lien, sweet mistress, Nory said, 

I never lay afore in sic a bed; 

Sae saft and warm, and wi' sae bonny claise, 

Indeed I 've been fu' well at my ain ease. 

Let you nor yours in sic condition be, 

As yon bra' laird, well mat he thram, fand me. 

The bonny bed has gar'd me ly o'er lang, 

I manna langer bide, but up and gang. 

Huly, my bairn, hae ye nae hasty care, 

Ye need no rise these couple of hours and mair; 

Ise come again, and raise you time enough, 

Our lads yet have not budg'd to yoke the plough. 

Sae out she slips, and snecks the door behin', 

And Bess and Nory to their crack begin. 

Woman, says Bess, I think we '11 tak advice, 

And e'en ly still, my mither's unco wise ; 

She 's up, but cannot ly for want of breath, 

Yet says that early rising did her skaith; 

O'er browden'd o' the warld she was aye, 

'Tis best we guide ourselves as lang 's we may. 

She says, if she were back at auld fifteen, 

She 'd never do again as she has done ; 

And sae I think we'd better now refrain, 

Than wiss that we had yesterday again. 



174 Helenore; or. 



But O, says Nory, I am far frae hame, 
And this last night I had a dreary dream : 
My heart's yet beating wi' the unco fright, 
And whan I 'm waking, think I see the sight. 
I thought that we were washing at our sheep, 
In sic a pool, and O but it was deep; 
I thought therein a lad was like to drown, 
His feet yeed frae him, and his head went down; 
Flaught-bred into the pool mysell I keest, 
Weening to keep his head aboon at least ; 
But ere I wist, I clean was at the float, 
I sanna tell you what a gloff I got; 
My eyn grew blind, the lad I cou'd na see, 
But ane I kent na took a claught of me, 
And fuish me out, and laid me down to dreep. 
Sae burden'd was I, I could hardly creep. 
Great was the care this stranger took of me, 
And O ! I thought him bonny, blyth, and free. 
Dry claiths, I thought, he gae me to put on, 
Better by far, and brawer than my own ; 
And whan I had come something to mysell, 
Ayont the pool I spy'd the lad that fell, 
Drouked, and looking unco urluch like : 
A lass about him made an unco fike, 
Drying and dighting at him up and down; 
I kent her no, but striped was her gown. 
But O, the skair I got into the pool, 
I thought my heart had couped frae its hool. 
And sae I waken'd, glamping here and there, 
I wat ye might hae found me in my care. 



The Fortunate Shepherdess. 175 

Said Bess, Tis true, your fump'ring waken'd me, 
And I you joundyM, that you might be free. 
As they are cracking, aunty chanced to pass, 
And says, Fu are you now, my bonny lass % 
'Tis now fair day, and Bess and ye may rise ; 
See, lass, here 's for you a new pair of stays ; 
And there 's a gown, some langer nor your am : 
Bess, put a' well upon her, and come ben. 

Now leave we Nory wi' her change of dress, 
Under the care of aunty and of Bess, 
Till we inform you of poor Lindy's fate, 
That was left corded up at sic a rate. 
Tuggling and struggling how to get him free, 
He did great pyne and meikle sorrow dree, 
Till with the grips he was baith black and 

blue. 
At last in twa the dowie raips he gnew ; 
But three haill days were outly come and gane, 
Ere he the task could manage him alane ; 
And fan the raips were loos'd and a' set by, 
Then Lindy to stand up began to try. 
But, by your favour, that 's aboon his thum', 
For he fell [feckless] back upon his bum. 
His queets were dozen'd, and the fettle tint, 
Ye in them of the raips wad seen the dint ; 
And mair outour, the lad wi' faut was gane, 
And naething left amaist but skin and bane. 
At last he shoop himsell again to stand, 
Wi' help of a rough kent intill his hand, 



176 Helenore; or, 



But swaver'd sae, as ye hae often seen, 
Ane for a month had in the fever been. 
He taks the gate, and travels as he dow, 
Hamewith thro' mony a wilsome height and how; 
To Colin's house, by luck that nearest lay, 
He, tir'd and weary, hirpled down the brae. 
Whan he came in, wha 's sitting there but Jean, 
Poor Colin's honest wife, her liefu' lane, 
Nae jot intil her hand, but greeting sair, 
And looking like threescore and ten wi' care, 
Tho' sax-and-thirty held her yet again, 
Sae sair for Nory she was now in pain ; 
And Colin too, for he had gane to try, 
Gin he the lassie thro' the hills might spy ; 
But tint nor tryal, she had gotten nane, 
Qf her that first, or him that last was gane 5 
Fan she heard Lindy saying, " Peace be here," 
She looked up and says, " And welcome here." 
Wow, Lindy, is this you 1 where hae you been ? 
Hae ye our Colin, or poor Nory seen ? 
Na, well I wat I, 'oman, wheie yeed they ? 
They 're nae sae wood, I hope, as chase the prey 1 
What they hae chased, I kenna, Jean replies, 
But since they yeed frae me, 'tis lang three days : 
Poor Nory gallop' d off that very night, 
That wi' the gueeds we gat the dreary fright : 
What was her ends, I kenna ; yet I fear 
That ye was at the bottom of her care. 
The herds that came, set a' things here asteer, 
And she ran aff as rais'd as ony deer ; 



The Fortunate Shepherdess. IJJ 

Land-gates unto the hills she took the gate, 
After the night was gloom' d and growing late. 
We kent nae what came of her till neist day, 
That the herds tauld they saw her run away. 
At this her father took the road, poor man, 
And to the glens like ane distracted ran. 
Of ane or other, I Ve nae notice got, 
I fear the warst, that dowie is their lot ; 
And I with grief am pining here my lane, 
The warst three days, that o'er my head has 
gane. 

And are ye saying Nory is awa 1 
Says Lindy till her, that 's the warst of a' ; 
Hard 's been my fortune for thir three days past; 
But I have met the hardest at the last : 
My thread of life is now worn very sma', 
Just at the nick of braking into twa ; 
What fusion 's in it I sail freely ware, 
As lang 's I can, in seeking out my dear : 
Great may the hardships be that she has met, 
And gotten for my sake so hard a set. 
Poor 'oman ! O gin I had pith to gang, 
To find her out, tho 't should be ne'er so lang, 
My heart 's bleed for her I wad frankly ware, 
Sae be I could relieve her of her care. 
Then rises up, and Jean says, Gueed 's your cause, 
For mony a day ye 've play'd among the shaws ; 
But sair I dread, your labour will be vain, 
Had she been living, she had been again, 



178 Helenore; or, 

But since ye 're gain, I sanna you withstand ; 
But ye maun tak a piece into your hand : 
And here 's a wallet stuff' d wi' cheese and bread, 
To help you on the road, for ye '11 hae need. 
Seek wyne and onwyne, miss no height nor how, 
And cry whene'er ye come upon a know ; 
And ilka gate ye gang baith far and near, 
As well for Colin as for Noiy speer. 
Alas ! I wat na what to bid you dee, 
Or which is dearest to me, he or she. 

The gate he taks, a kent intill his hand, 
And whan he raise had hardly pith to stand ; 
Out thro' the hills the gainest way he took, 
And in his search miss'd neither hook nor crook : 
But O, tho' he was willing, he was weak, 
And syne with grief his heart was like to break ; 
He stress'd himsell to gang aboon his pith, 
And try'd his strength with ganging limb and 

lithj 
Aftimes he boot to set him down to rest, 
The night fa's on him with thick weet and mist ; 
A cauld stane-side the bield that he could mak ; 
All night the rain was pelting on his back : 
A.e wink o' sleep, wi' grief and cauld and wet, 
Out throw the wilsome night, he could na get. 
Whan day came in, the lift began to clear, 
And round about he spies baith far and near ; 
Cries mony a Nory, but no answer hears, 
Syne westlins thro' the glen his course he steers. 



The Fortunate Shepherdess. 179 

And as he yeed, the track at last he found, 

Of the ca'd hership on the mossy ground; 

And on he gaes anither livelang day, 

But neither finds his Nory nor the prey. 

Night fa's again, and he maun tak a bield, 

It was na gueed thir rugged hills could yield ; 

But wi' some hopes he travels on, while he 

The way the hership had been driven could see ; 

Weening that ablins Nory might hae gane 

Upon the track, but he was sair mista'en, 

For he the west, and she the east hand took, 

The inwith road, by favour o' the brook. 

Neist day, 'gainst noon, he comes upon a brae, 

Whare many a beast at their own leisure lay : 

But far beneath him, that he could na ken, 

Gin ony of them might have been his ain, 

A burn ran in the laigh, ayont there lay 

As many feeding on the other brae ; 

Down gatewards to the burn his course he steers, 

But in his sight no herd as yet appears : 

Whan he came down, bra' stepping stanes he fand, 

And o'er he steps, his kent intill his hand. 

Just as he landed at the other bank, 

Three lusty fellows gat of him a clank, 

And round about him bicker'd a' at anes,* 

As they were playing at the penny-stanes ; 

And wha were they, but the same neaty three, 

That with the raips gard him the dolour dree ! 

* [Nor gae him time to weild his trusty tree, 

Or ony means to use to had him free.] — isl Ed. 



180 Helenore; or, 



Ha, ha, my lad, says they, ye are nae blate, 

They gang right far about that never met ; 

It seems ye are na saird wi' what ye got, 

Yese find that we can cast a harder knot. 

And till him straight, and binds him o'er again, 

Till he cry'd out with the sair hanking pain ; 

And mony a paik unto his beef they laid, 

Till with the thumps, he blue and blae was made ; 

Then flung him by just like a slaughter-sheep, 

And bade him rest him there and tak a sleep. 

At night whan they were ready hame to gang, 

And shadows frae hill-heads were growing lang; 

His legs they loos'd, but flighter'd kept his hands, 

And lasht him on before wi' birken wands, 

About his houghs, and round about his lugs, 

And at his hair loot mony unco drugs ! 

Whan he 's ca'd hame, they shot him in before, 

In a black hole, and snaply lock'd the door. 

As he is chamber'd up, he hears a grain, 

As of a body making dowie main : 

Altho' the voice seem'd till him unco near, 

Tor very fear, he durst na budge to speer. 

Whan he had lien a wee, the bodie says, 

O gin I were in Flaviana's braes ! 

Naething should gar me gae sae far afield, 

Tho' I at hame should to the skin be pCel'd. 

He kens the word, and says, O wae 's my fell, 

Is that ye, Colin, are ye there yoursell ? 

'Tis I, 'tis I, but tell me, what are ye, 

That in this dreary darksome hole kens me 1 



The Fortunate Shepherdess. 1 8 1 

E'en Lindy here, your ain auld neiper's sin, 

Shakel'd baith hands and feet, wi' a sair skin. 

That 's unco luck, but gueed I sanna ca 't, 

And yet intil 't there 's something couthie fra 't. 

Among ill hands yoursell as weel as I, 

It seems has fallen, our fortune 's been but thry : 

Anes on a day, I thought na to hae been 

Sae sadly hew'd, and sic mischances seen. 

But fat '11 ye say ? sic things has been afore 's, 

And we maun thole them, tho' they had been worse. 

But tell me, Lindy, fat was 't fuish you out, 

Or was ye ca'd awa into the rout 1 

I was na ca'd, says Lindy, but was knit, 

And in that sett, three langsome days did sit, 

Till wi' my teeth I gnew the raips in twa, 

And wi' sair pingling wan at last awa ; 

Crap hame wi' meikle ado, and fan I came, 

Fand in your house nae bodie, but your dame : 

Frae her I leart poor Nory's chance and yours, 

Sae aff again what legs could lift, I scours 

Thro' mony hills, till at the last I fell 

Among sic fouks as ye hae fallen yoursell. 

Fan came ye here 1 Nae mair but yesterday, 

Wi' dowie tone, poor Colin maks reply. 

Weel, man, he says, for anes we 're nicked now. 

And maun beneath our thrawart fortune bow. 

Wi' maun be doing, since better maunna be, 

We '11 ablins yet some lucky day get free. 

Heard ye of Nory naething as ye yeed, 

Out throw their dowie glens, alive or dead 1 



1 82 Helenore; or y 



Nae tint nor trial, Lindy says, I fand, 
Nor could I of her hear, on ony hand. 
'Tis mair nor likely then, poor Colin says, 
That she is at the yont end of her days ; 
Poor thing ! she 's maybe picked now as bare, 
By greedy beasts, as worry'd sheep or hare. 
Thus ilk ane to the ither made their main, 
And sigh'd and grat, and sigh'd and grat again ! 

As day-light came, in the Sevitians came, 
Whase nature to their country gave its name ; 
And to the men set by a task of hay ; 
To work till even, frae the brak of day : 
Each in their hand a scrimp hauf bannock got, 
That scarce for anes wad fill their mouth and throat; 
So set in view, they could na win awa, 
And boot to work, or they their backs wad claw. 
Their stent was mair than they could well mak out, 
And whan they fail'd, their backs they roundly 

rout. 
About mid-day they ae slim meltit sent, 
And with it aftentimes the maiden went : 
Nor had she aft upon this errand gane, 
Till she is with the love of Lindy ta'en ; 
And frae the time that Cupid shot the dart, 
And stack it in the bottom of her heart, ' 
Their meltit was twice better than before, 
For she ne'er stuck to gang out o'er the score. 
Stoup-fulls of crouds and ream she aft wad steal, 
And could her souple tricks frae minny heal. 



The Fortunate Shepherdess. 183 

By this my lads a better living had, 

And to her for it mony blessings pray'd : 

Whan she had gane a while, she grew mair grave, 

Which made them speer why sae she did behave 1 

Was she found out for mending o' their meal 1 

Or was she scrimped of content or heal 1 

Na, na, says she, that lad was a' her care, 

That was so setting with his yellow hair ; 

She could na help it, but she boot to tell, 

And how to cure her he knew best himsell. 

Auld Colin says, He wad be in the wrang, 

Gin frae your heal he held you short or lang, 

Sae be it be into the laddie's power, 

By onie means your dowie case to cure : 

For kind, and mair nor kind, to us ye Ve been, 

Since we began to toil upon the green. 

What is 't that ails you 1 speak and dinna spare, 

And gin he can, he '11 ease you o' your care. 

Well can he do 't, gin he but likes himsell. 

Be what it likes, says Colin, lassie tell. 

Then Bydby says, (so was the maiden's name,) 

My very heart is lowan in a flame 

For Lindy there, and maun lie down and dee, 

Except I get him ; that 's what troubles me : 

I smor'd the flame, and thought to keep it in, 

But aye the more I smor'd, it spread within ; 

Till now, ye see 't has blaz'd out at my mou' ; 

Ye ken my trouble ; Lindy, pity now. 

Well sail ye fare, as lang as ye bide here, 

Altho' your biding were for day and year : 



184 Helenore; or, 



And gin ye thought that latting you awa 
Wad be a favour, I on means wad fa' 
To lat you out, upon the dead of night, 
Fan ye wad be well aff, ere day was light. 
But upon this perconnon I agree, 
To lat you gae, that Lindy marry me, 
And tak me hence, till we get time and place 
To get a priest to gee 's the haly grace. 

Now ye maun ken, whan they came frae the hay, 
They ilka night were under lock and key ; 
And ilka morning by the creek o' day, 
They 're set to wark, and snaply ca'd away. 
Well, Bydby, Colin says, ye 's ken as soon 
As you to-morrow come to us at noon. 
Whan she 's awa, to Lindy Colin says, 
What think ye, man 1 will yon frank lassie please ? 
Will ye our freedom purchase at this price, 
'Twill soon be done, for Bydby is na nice : 
Ye 11 ken by this that the proverb is true, 
Breeks maun come speed, when petticoats will 

woo. 
Sair are we nidder'd, that is what ye ken, 
And but for her, we had been bare the ben ; 
And gin we baulk her, "stead of being kind, 
What we already hae o' her we '11 tyne ; ' 
And getting aff ye see is yont our power, 
We 're never out of sight for half an hour, 
But some chield ay upon us keeps an ee, 
And sae we need na lippen to get free. 



The Fortunate Shepherdess. 185 

I wonder, Colin, to hear you say sae, 
Kenning my mind anither gate to gae, 
Says Lindy syne, and what wad Nory say, 
Gin she be living ? as I wish she may ! 
Wad she no think hersell but ill paid hame, 
And ready be of falsehood me to blame 1 
Says Colin, Man, gin that be a' your dread, 
Ye need na halt, for Nory 's surely dead : 
She 's got, I fear, what marriage she will get, 
That 's wi' the mould, sae that needs be na let. 
But of the proffer I sail pass my skill, 
Tho' it be wrang to lear fouk to do ill ; 
Seem ye content to hald her to her bode, 
We 11 mak a shift to tyne her by the road, 
And sae get aff; 'tis hampered living here ; 
Slip we this knot, we may miss 't for a year. 
Sae whan she comes the morn, blink in her 

ee, 
And wi' some frankness her your answer gee. 
Weel, Lindy says, I '11 try to do my best, 
Wese well begin, and leave good luck the rest. 

Bydby, neist day, whan noon came on, appears, 
And Lindy, what he could, his courage cheers ; 
Look'd braw and canty when she came in by, 
And says, Twice welcome, Bydby, here the day. 
At this the lassie's courage got a heeze, 
And thinks her wiss is now come to the creeze. 
Gin she came well provided ay afore, 
This day she fuish of best of cheer gilore. 



1 86 Helenore; or, 



Sae they sat down a' frankly to their meat, 
And Lindy 'treated Bydby sair to eat ; 
And blyth was she, and frankly took a share, 
And thought she saw the yont end of her care. 

Whan they had eaten, and were straitly pang'd, 
To hear his answer Bydby greatly lang'd, 
And Lindy did na keep her lang in pain, 
But says, I 'm of your proffer wondrous fain ; 
Gie us our leash the night, and ye sail be 
My dauted lass, and gang alang wi' me. 
Well fell my heart, says Bydby, Lindy now, 
Well wair'd I think what I hae geen to you : 
I '11 keep my word this night, and ye sail see, 
Ere the first cock, that I sail set you free. 
Whan she yeed hame, she spent the afterneen, 
Buckling and making ready for the green ; 
Bannocks and kebbocks knit up in a claith, 
She had wiled by and row'd up in her waith : 
This she ere even had tentily laid by, 
And weel happ'd up aneth a coll of hay. 
Whan tired and weary they came hame at 

e'en 
They 're clapped up into their hole bedeen : 
The key brought in, sent ben, and closely laid 
Aneth the bouster of her brither's bed ;' 
And Bydby now is all upon the catch, 
Sleeps not a wink, but tentily does watch. 
'Bout the bell-hour of midnight does she slip 
Out of her bed, just frae her mither's hip ; 



The Fortunate Shepherdess. 1 87 

Gaes ben, and calmly steals awa the key, 

Frae 'neath her brither's bouster, where it lay ; 

Opens the portal door wi' little din, 

And, what she may, out to the lads 'gan rin ; 

Says, Are ye sleeping % rise and win awa, 

'Tis time, and just the time for you to draw : 

For now the lads are sleeping horn-hard, 

The door upon the dogs securely barr'd ; 

Ichie nor ochie now ye winna hear, 

The best time in the warld for you to steer. 

Colin and Lindy now are cut and dry, 

What legs could lift, their wish'd escape to try : 

Sae out they came, the night was calm and clear, 

And Bydby had her baggage lying near. 

Together a' they nimbly tak the gate, 

And scour'd the forest at an awfu' rate. 

But whan they were about twa miles awa, 

Lindy began with care his head to claw ; 

Stands still and says, Wae 's me ! I hae forgot, 

With haste of coming aff, to fetch my coat, 

What sail I do ? it was almaist bran-new, 

'Tis but a hellier since 't came aff the clew ; 

O Bydby, lassie, and yese be my bride, 

Rin back about it, here about we '11 bide 

Till ye come back ; your birn ye may lay down, 

For rinning ye will be the better bown. 

Poor Bydby trows him, and rins back again, 

Then say the lads, I think the day 's our ain : 

They turse the baggage, and awa they scour, 

Out o'er the yonter brae with a' their power. 



1 88 Helenore; or, 



Poor Bydby was na lang ere she ran back, 
Mounts up the coat ere ye a nut wad crack, 
And to the road again with a' her pith, 
And souple was she ilka limb and lith : 
Back in a clap, she 's at th' appointed place, 
Frae which to fetch the coat she took the 

race \ 
Looks round about her, but she naething sees, 
And back and fore she seeks among the trees : 
But na, it winna do, nae bodie 's there : 
She cries ; nae answer ; then begins her care. 

Lindy ! Lindy ! hast thou left me sae ? 
Dear is this coat of thine to me the-day. 
What shall come of me ? hame I dare na gang, 
The herds and gueeds will be a-field ere lang. 
We 're a' amissing, I '11 get a' the wyte, 

And nane but me alane to dree the flyte. 
Hame 1 no : what gueed to me at hame could 

be, 
Whan my dear Lindy is awa frae me 1 
But maybe they hae gane ayont the brae, 
To hae 't ahind them ere the brak of day : 

1 '11 on and see gin there about they ly, 
They '11 either see, or hear me, whan I cry : 
For Lindy looked not like ane to cheat, 
Or ony lass ungratefully to treat. 

Then up the brae with a' her might she hies, 
And fan she 's past it, mony a Lindy cries : 
But, by your favour, there 's no Lindy there ; 
There 's nane to answer, and as few to hear. 



The Fortunate Shepherdess. 1S9 

Now, by this time, the sun begins to leam, 
And lit the hill-heads with his morning beam ; 
And birds, and beasts, and fouk to be a-steer, 
And clouds o' reek frae lum heads to appear. 
When she had cry'd and grat, and cry'd again, 
And fand that a' her crying was in vain, 
She e'en lay down aneth her load of care, 
And wish'd that she were dead, and dead just there. 
A mournful ditty till hersell she sung, 
In flaughts roove out her hair, her hands she wrung : 
Yet wi' the weary coat she wad na part, 
Because it gae some gladdening till her heart. 
Fat sail I do % gang hame again 1 na, na, 
That were my hogs to a blate fair to ca'. 
Anes out I am, I ; 11 never turn again, 
Tho' till I die I gang, and gang in vain ! 
Northward frae this I aften heard them say, 
That their ain country, Flaviana, lay ; 
That gate I '11 had, gin I the airths can keep, 
And fan I canna gang, I J ll try to creep ; 
It may be I upon the gate may fa', 
And frae my birn of sorrow win awa. ' 
But she had naething nature to sustain, 
The lads had with them aff the baggage tane. 
For a' the wealth that she had left at hame, 
Of cheese and bannocks, butter, milk, and ream, 
That day she was as fremmit till it a' 
As the wild Scot that wins in Gallowa. 
But dool yet hadna latten her feel her want, 
Or think of the misluck of being scant : 



190 Helenoi'e; or, 



Altho' her weam was toom, and she grown yap, 
Love mixt with care helpt to fill up the gap. 
As she was souple like a very eel, 
O'er hill and dale with fury she did dreel : 
A' roads to her were good and bad alike. 
Nane o't she wyl'd, but forward on did streek ; 
But as she kent no, she mistook the cast, 
And mair and mair fell frae the road they past. 
O'er monie heights and hows she scour'd ere noon, 
And could have thol'd the chance of a disjune. 
But naething had her cravings to supplie, 
Except the berries of the hawthorn tree, 
And slaes and nuts that in the thickets grew; 
Of these indeed she could hae tane anew ; 
But someway on her they fuish on a change, 
That gut and ga' she keest with braking strange. 
The fiercelings race her did so hetly cadge, 
Her stammack could na sic raw vittals swage : 
Sick, sick she grows, as ever lay on strae, 
And near gae up the ghost 'tweesh that and wae ; 
Down she maun lie, she was sae sair opprest, 
And try gin she wad better be of rest. 
Gin she was toom afore, she 's toomer now, 
Her heart was like to loup out at her mou '. 
In care-bed lair for three lang hours she lay, 
And by this time 'tis well o'er in the day : 
Now piece and piece the sickness wears away, 
But she 's as dweble as a windle-strae. 
Weak as she was, she taks the gate again, 
And geed na far till she observes two men, 



The Fortunate Shepherdess. 191 

To north and east of her a piece before ; 
As soon 's she saw them she began to roar ; 
Crying, Byde still ! and running what she dow ; 
The men her hear, and sat down on a know. 
She was na lang till snaply she came too : 
The men lookt up, and said, Lass, what 's ado 1 
Whan she them saw, she fand she was mistane : 
They speer'd fat was she seeking there her 

lane? 
Sae far frae towns, it could na be for gueed, 
That she was wand'ring there in sic a meed. 
'Tis for nae ill, she says, that I am here, 
Nor errandless, tho' ye be free to speer. 
Twa men I seek, and thought ye had been they. 
Twa men ye 've got, say they, then come away. 

Na, na, she says, I 'm nae of men so scant, 
And tho' I 'm seeking, ye 're no wha I want. 
But tell me gin ye saw twa men the-day — 
The ane with yellow hair, the ither gray? 
I'll wad, say they, the yellow-hair'd 's your jo ; 
'Tis may be so, she says, and may be no. 
Is that his coat ye carry on your back 1 
'Tis e'en the same, and been a heavy wrack. 
He maun be little worth that left you sae : 
He may be is, young man, and may be nae. 
Ye 're unco short, my lass, to be so lang ; 
But we maun ken you better ere ye gang. 
I think it best ye gie that coat to me ; 
I think not sae, and so we disagree. 



192 Helenore; or, 



It is na yours, and fat wad ye do wi't? 

As little can ye think that I wad gee 't ; 

'Twas never made for me, ye may well ken, 

And fouk are free to gee but wSat 's their ain. 

Ye may be stown 't awa frae side some lad, 

That 's faen asleep at wauking of the fau'd. 

'Tis nae sic thing, and ye 're but scant of grace, 

To tell sic baddords till a bodie's face. 

Ah, bonny lass, says he, ye '11 gee 's a kiss, 

And I sail set ye right on, hit or miss. 

A hit or miss I '11 get, but help of you, 

Kiss ye sklate-stanes, they winna weet your mou' ; 

And aff she gaes ; the fallow loot a rin, 

As gin he ween'd with speed to tak her in ; 

But as luck was, a knibblach took his tae, 

And o'er fa's he, and tumbled down the brae. 

His neiper leugh, and said it was well wair'd, 

Let never jamphers yet be better saird. 

Sae she escapes by favour of her heels, 

And made nae stop for scrabs, or stanes, or peels*. 

Twa mile she ran afore she bridle drew, 

And syne she lean'd her down upon a brow, 

Sair out of breath, and almaist tint for faut, 

And spies beneath a buss of what-ye-caw't ? 

Ay, Etnagh-berries, and yeed down the brae, 
And there she gets them black as ony slae. 
On them she penny'd well, and starker grew, 
And gather'd strength her journey to pursue. 
But, by this time, the night begins to fa', 
And she frae ony bield was far awa, 



The Fortunate Shepherdess. 193 

Except stane-sides, and they had little lythe, 

Yet of the same she for the time is blythe. 

But a' thing now grew black and eery like, 

And she nae living had to her to speak ; 

And though she was right bardach on day-light, 

She was as fly'd as ony hare at night, 

The earnbleater, or the muirfowl's craw, 

Was like to melt her very heart awa. 

Yet boot she hadna, but that pain to dree, 

And ne'er a wink that night came in her ee. 

I cannot tell the case that she was in : 

But whan the lavrock does her sang begin, 

Blythe at her heart she was, and turst her coat 

Upon her back, and to the gate she got : 

Aye haddin' eastlins, as the ground did fa', 

And frae the heights aye strove to keep awa ; 

But yet nae country in her sight appears, 

But dens and burns, and braes and langsome 

moors. 
This way she travels till the noon of day, 
And now her heart is like to melt away 
Wi' heat and mister, and at last, thinks she, 
This gate she could not long in midlert be. 
She sits her down, and thinks her turf was 

there, 
And never thought to see kent face nae mair. 
As till hersell she 's making at her main, 
And eeking up with care her dreary pain, 
Sleep crap upon her sick and weary heart, 
That of her sorrow steal' d away a part. 

2 A 



194 Helenore; or, 



But floughtrous dreams strove what they could to 

spill 
The bliss that sleep was making to her ill. 
She thinks she's chaced for latting gae the 

men, 
And taking butt the key, that lay the-ben : 
Wi' mony a threat to thrash her back and side, 
Gin they came till her, if she wad na bide ; 
And up she starts, and glowr'd a' round about, 
And gin 't were true or no, begins to doubt : 
And with what pith she had, she tries to gang, 
For fear that she should be o'ertane ere lang. 
But little speed she came, and yet the sweat 
Was drapping frae her at an unco rate, 
Showding frae side to side, and lewdring on, 
With Lindy's coat syde hanging on her drone. 
In this poor pickle, whan help wad ha been 
The blythest sight that ever she had seen, 
What spies she coming but a naked man, 
Feaming like ony bear that ever ran 1 
And high aboon him, vapring in his hand, 
And glenting with the sun, a bloody brand. 
Roaring and swearing like a rais'd dragoon, 
That he sud see the heart's bleed o' the lown ! 
What in the earth to do she could na tell, 
For fear quite master'd her, and down she fell. 
The man that ramping was, and raving mad, 
Came fiercelings up, and crying, Ay, haud ! haud ! 
And in his fury, and with reeling eyn, 
The ane he wanted thinks that she had been. 



The Fortunate Shepherdess. 195 

Th' unchancy coat, that boonmost on her lay, 
Made him believe, that it was really sae. 
Get up, wild murd'rer dog ! he says, till I 
A port mak through your breast for life to fly ! 

spare ! O spare ! says Bydby, haud your hand ! 

1 'm but a woman, and can hardly stand. 
Soon by her voice he kend that she spak true, 
And says, Rise, fear not, I 'm not seeking you ; 
But saw ye, tell me, saw ye in this glen, 
Skulking by ony bield, twa wretched men % 
My sakel'ess brither they hae ta'en and slain, 
For naething, but for seeking of his ain. 

Tell shortly, and yese get nae harm frae me, 
Nor mair be putten till, whate'er ye be. 
Yes, yes, twa men I saw ayont yon brae, 
She trembling said, I wiss them muckle wae : 
Sad was the chase that they hae geen to me. 
My heart 's near out of hool, by getting free ; 
Twa mile frae this, I left them on a know, 
And far beneath it lies a dreary how, 
Thro' whilk I ran, till I ; m near at my last ; 
Gueed be your speed, and dowie be their cast. 
With furious haste he soon skipt o'er the hight : 
She never jeed till he was out o' sight. 
Fat chance he furder had, she could na tell, 
But was right fain that she wan aff hersell. 
Whan she a mile or twa had farther gane, 
She 's unco eery to be sae her lane. 
Ay mair and mair she frae the hills hads down, 
Wissing that she might hit upon some town ; 



196 Helenore; or, 



But she 's as weak as very water grown, 

And tarrows at the browst that she had brown ; 

And hallins wisses she had never seen 

The bonny lad she lov'd, atween the een ; 

For now all hopes of seeing him are fled, 

And she with seeking him is almost dead. 

And will and wilsome was she, and her breast 

With wae was bowden, and just like to birst. 

Nae sust'nance got, that of meal's corn grew, 

But only at the cauld hill berries gnew, 

But frae that food nae pith came till her banes, 

And she was fu' and hungry baith at anes. 

Now she began to think within hersell, 

Upon a tale she heard a wierd-wife tell, 

That through the country telling fortunes yeed, 

And at babees and placks came wondrous speed : 

Whan she her loof had looked back and fore, 

And drawn her finger langlins ilka score, 

Up in her face looks the auld hag forfairn, 

And says, Ye will hard-fortun'd be, my bairn : 

Frae fouks a fieldward, nae frae fouk at hame, 

Will come the antercast ye '11 hae to blame ; 

Gin ye be wise, beware of unco men, 

I dread for them ye '11 anes be bare the-ben : 

Sae come ye speed, or miss ye of your mark, 

Ae thing I 'm sure, ye '11 hae right dowieiwark. 

Then Bydby says, Had I but been sae wise, 

As have laid up auld minny's gueed advice, 

Frae this mishap I might have kept me free ; 

But wha can frae what 's laid afore them flee 1 



The Fortunate Shepherdess. 197 

Thus making at her main, and lewdring on, 
Thro' scrubs and craigs, wi' mony a heavy groan, 
With bleeding legs, and sair massacker'd shoon, 
With Lindy's coat ay felt'ring her aboon. 
Till on a high braehead she lands at last, 
That down to a how burnie pathlins past. 
Clear was the burnie and the busses green, 
But rough and steep the brae that lay between : 
Her burning drowth inclin'd her to be there, 
But want of maughts and distance eek'd her 

care. 
Now, by this time, the evening 's falling down, 
Hill-heads were red, and hows were eery grown ; 
Yet with what pith she had, she taks the gate, 
And wan the burn, but it 's now growing late. 
The birds about were making merry cheer, 
She thinks their music sang, Ye 're welcome here. 
With the cauld stream she quench'd her lowan 

drouth, 
Syne of the Etnagh-berries ate a fouth, 
That black and ripe upon the busses grew, 
And were new water' d with the evening dew. 
Then sat she down aneth a birken shade, 
That spread aboon her, and hang o'er her head, 
Couthy and warm, and gowany the green, 
Had it, instead of night, the day-time been ; 
But grim and gousty, and pit-mark with fright, 
All things appear'd upon the dead of night : 
For fear, she cower'd like maukin in the seat, 
And dunt for dunt, her heart begant to beat; 



:9s Helenore; or> 



Amidst this horror, sleep began to steal, 
And for a wee her flightring breast to heal. 

As she hauf-sleeping, and hauf-waking lay, 
An unco din she hears of fouk and play. 
The sough they made gar'd her lift up her 

eyn, 
And, oh, the gathering that was on the green 
Of little foukies, clad in green and blue ! 
Kneefer and trigger never trade the dew ; 
In many a reel they scamper'd here and there, 
Whiles in the yerd, and whiles up in the air. 
The pipers play'd like ony touting horn, 
Sic sight she never saw since she was born. 
As she 's behadding all this mirthful glee, 
Or e'er she wist, they 're dancing in the tree 
Aboon her head, as nimble as the bees, 
That swarm in search of honey round the trees. 
Fear 's like to fell her, reed that they should fa' 
And smore her dead, afore she wan awa ; 
Syne in a clap, as thick 's the motty sin, 
They hamphis'd her with unco fike and din, 
Some cry'd, Tak ye the head, Ise tak a foot, 
We '11 lear her upon this tree-head to sit, 
And spy about her. Others said, Out fy, 
Let be, she '11 keep the King of Elfin's ^.y. 
Another said, oh, gin she had but milk, 
Then should she gae frae head to foot in silk, 
With castings rare, and a gueed nourice-fee, 
To nurse the King of Elfin's heir, Fizzee. 



The Fortunate Shepherdess. 199 

Syne ere she wist, like house aboon her head, 

Great candles burning, and braw tables spread ; 

Braw dishes reeking, and just at her hand, 

Trig green coats sairing, a' upon command. 

To cut they fa', and she among the lave ; 

The sight was bonny, and her mou' did crave : 

The mair she ate, the mair her hunger grew, 

Eat what she like, and she could ne'er be fu' ; 

The knible Elves about her ate ding-dang, 

Syne to the play they up, and danc'd and flang ; 

Drink in braw cups was caw'd about gelore ; 

Some fell asleep, and loud began to snore. 

Syne in a clap, the Fairies a' sat down, 

And fell to crack about the table round. 

Ane at another speer'd, Fat tricks play'd ye, 

Whan in a riddle ye sail'd o'er the sea 1 

Quoth it, I steal' d the King of Sweden's knife, 

Just at his dinner, sitting by his wife, 

Whan frae his hand he newlins laid it down : 

He blam'd the steward, said he had been the lown ; 

The sakeless man deny'd, syne yeed to look, 

And lifting of the tableclaith the nook, 

I gae 't a tit, and tumbl'd o'er the bree ; 

Tarn got the wyte, and I gae the tehee ! 

I think I never saw a better sport, 

But dool fell'd Tam, for sadly he paid for 't. 

But, quoth anither, I play'd a better prank ; 

I gard a witch fa' headlins in a stank, 

As she was riding on a windle-strae, 

The carling gloff'd, and cried out, Will awae ! 



200 Helenore; or, 



Another said, I couped Mungo's ale, 
Clean heels o'er head, fan it was ripe and stale, 
Just whan the tapster the first chapin drew ; 
Then bad her lick the pale, and aff I flew. 
Had ye but seen how blate the lassie looked, 
Whan she was blam'd, how she the drink mis- 
cooked. 
Says a gnib elf, As an auld carle was sitting 
Among his bags, and loosing ilka knitting, 
To air his rousty coin, I loot a claught, 
And took a hundred dollars at a fraught. 
Whan with the sight the carle had pleas'd himsell, 
Then he began the glancing heap to tell ; 
As soon 's he miss'd it, he rampag'd red-wood, 
And lap and danc'd, and was in unco mood ; 
Ran out and in, and up and down ; at last 
His reeling eyn upon a raip he cast, 
Knit till a bauk, that had hung up a cow : 
He taks the hint, and there hings he, I trow. 

As she 's behadding ilka thing that past, 
With a loud crack the house fell down at last ; 
The reemish put a knell unto her heart, 
And frae her dream she waken'd wi' a start : 
She thought she could na scape o' being smor'd, 
And at the fancy loudly cry'd and roafd. 
Syne frae the tree she lifted up her head, 
And fand for a' the din she was na dead ; 
But sitting body-like, as she sat down, 
But ony alteration, on the ground. 



The Fortunate Shepherdess. 201 

The sky 's now casten, and, wi' thrapples clear, 

The birds about were making merry cheer ; 

And now the sun to the hill-heads 'gan speal, 

Spreading on trees and plants a growthy heal ; 

Poor Bydby 's wond'ring at ilk thing she saw, 

But wi' a hungry cut-pock for it a' ; 

And fairly'd now gin it a dream had been, 

She thought she saw sae vively with her eyn ; 

And frae the ill o't sain'd her o'er and o'er, 

And round about with mazerment gan glour : 

Syne o'er her thrawart luck began to mourn, 

And with deep sighs she looked down the burn, 

Then takes the road, weak as a windle-strae, 

That with the wind e'er wagged on a brae : 

For very want her legs began to plait, 

As down the bonny burn she held the gate. 

Sweet were the notes that swell'd alang the grove, 

Where birds amid the shade declared their love, 

And might hae sawn content in ony breast, 

With grief like hers that had na been opprest ; 

But naething could her soupit spirits cheer, 

As lang 's she gat nae trial of her dear. 

However, on she gaes, as she was bown, 

And mony times to rest her limbs lay down ; 

Nae sust'nance gat she all the live-lang day, 

Save now and then a berry in the way. 

But this gueed hap throughout the day she had, 

She met with naething to mak her afraid. 

At last and lang, as night began to fa', 

Near to some dwelling she began to draw ; 

2 B 



202 Helenore; or, 



That was a' burrach'd round about with trees, 
'Tweesh which the reek frae high lum-heads she 

sees. 
That gate she halds, and as she weer inby, 
She does a lass amang the trees espy ; 
To her she hies, and hailst her with a jouk, 
The lass paid hame her compliment, and buik ; 
Heigh hey ! she says, as soon as she came near, 
There 's been a langsome day to me, my dear ; 
Faint, faint, alas ! with faut and mister gane, 
And in a peril just to die my-lane. 

Wae 's me, the other says, that 's dowie fate, 
'Tsall nae be lang ere ye some sust'nance get ; 
Sit still and rest you here aneth this tree, 
And in a clap Ise back with something be. 
And wha was this, think ye, sae kindly spake, 
But Nory, taking at her evening walk, 
Among the trees, and making heavy main, 
Thinking she ne'er wad Lindy see again. 
'Twas here she stay'd, and here she was ta'en in, 
And better guided, than with all her kin. 
And as she promised, back she came in haste, 
And, ye may trow 't, her pouches were not waste : 
Sae cuts of flesh, and lumps of bread and cheese, 
To Bydby, on the point of starving, gees, 
Wha with good will pang'd up her hungry maw, 
Syne frae a strype drank up what she could draw ; 
Then to her Nory says, What 's been your fate, 
That ye are fallen in sic a stagg'ring state 1 



The Fortunate Shepherdess. 203 

What means that coat ye carry on your back % 
It could na miss to be your heavy wrack. 
Ye maun, I ween, unto the kairds belang, 
Seeking, perhaps, to do somebody wrang, 
And meet your crew upon the dead o' night, 
And brak some house, or gee the fouk a fright. 
I was o'er busy geeing you relief, 
Whan may be ye are but at best a thief. 

Hegh hey! quo' Bydby, this is unco hard, 
That whan fouk travel, they are ca'd a kaird; 
I wat na, lass, gin ye wad tak it well, 
Gin fouk with you in sic a shape wad deal; 
But fouk that travel, mony a bob maun bide, 
And sae with me it happens at this tide. 

Forgive me, lass, says Nory, it may be 
That I am wrang, but fouk to guess are free. 
But what 's the matter, gin ye like to tell, 
That ye are wand'ring sae alane yoursell ? 

Syne that ye speer, Ise lat you shortly ken : 
I 'm seeking after twa unthankful men; 
Forgive me gin I wrang them. What! hae 

they, 
Says Nory, frae yoursell taen aught away, 
That ye sae weary after them pursue? 
Seeking amends, they may do hurt to you. 
Nae fear of that, quo' she, gin we were met, 
But I soon right of all my wrangs would get. 



2Q4 Helenore; or, 



To seek them, quo' she, ken ye whare to gang, 
Or to what country thir twa men belang 1 ? 
Well ken I that, says Bydby, I can tell, 
That they do baith in Flaviana dwell. 
In Flaviana ! quo' she, dwell ye there, 
That of their dwelling ye 're so very clair ? 
That do I not, nor ken I whare it lies, 
Bydby to her, with a sad sigh, replies : 
Had I done that, I might be there ere now, 
I've spent mair time nor wad hae gane't, I 

trow. 
Ken ye their names, in case ye gat the place 1 
Well that, she says, I ken them name and face; 
I ken them sae, that I could hae nae doubt, 
Out of a thusand men to wale them out. 
How did they ca' them, then ? says Nory, I 
Might may be help you to find out the way. 
Colin and Lindy, Bydby says, they 're ca'd, 
The ane an elderin man, the neist a lad, 
A bonny lad, as e'er my een did see, 
And dear he is, and sail be unto me. 
His yellow hair down o'er his shoulders hang, 
Like tap of lint, as bonny and as lang. 

Says Nory, Lass, your errand is na sma ; 
It seems that lad has stown your heart awa, 
And ye are following on wi' what 's ahind, 
And your mistake too late may aiblins find. 
Lads aftentimes poor lasses like to cheat, 
And whan they follow, aft they tyne the heat ; 



The Fortunate Shepherdess. 205 

Gin ye tak my advice, ye 've gane eneugh. 

I think nae sae, she says, and hallins leugh. 

Says Nory, Gin ye lippen till him sae, 

How through your fingers hae ye latten him gae 1 

That is the question, bonny lass, indeed, 

Ye now have hit the nail upon the head. 

I better with less travel might hae done, 

Had I been tenty, as I should have been ; 

But fouks, they say, are wise ahind the hand, 

Whilk to be true unto my cost I fand ; 

But had the case been yours, as it was mine, 

Ye might ha trow'd the raip wad keep the 

twine ; 
But maks-na-matter, gin I had my men, 
I hae nae fear to gar it knit again ; 
'T's nae a' in hand that helps, and it may be 
That this may be the very case wi' me. 
What was the case, my lass, gin I might speer 1 
That, quo' the other, ye right now shall hear ; 
'T 's true, the tale is no so very short, 
Nor yet mysell in sic condition for 't ; 
But gin ye like to ware the time, then ye 
How a' the matter stood shall vively see ; 
'Twill may be keep us baith frae thinking lang, 
And Ise lat you consider of the wrang. 
Content am I, she says, with a' my heart, 
'Twill aiblins lear me how to play my part : 
For what's your horse this day may come to 

be 
My mare the morn ; oblige me, and be free. 



206 Helenore; or, 



Then Bydby says, Short syne unto our glen, 
Seeking a hership, came yon unco men ; 
And our ain lads, although I say 't mysell, 
But guided them right cankerdly and snell : 
Gar'd them work hard, and little sust'nance gae, 
That I was even at their guideship wae : 
And ye maun ken, that ilka day at noon 
I was sent to them with their small disjune : 
And whan I saw their piece was but a gnap, 
Thought with mysell of mending their mishap : 
Sae ilka day I steal'd to them an eek, 
And row'd it up into my Sunday's keek : 
I hadna aft upon this errand gane, 
Till I am with the love of Lindy ta'en ; 
What needs me heal 't % na, na, it winna dee, 
And gin I should, I wad na now be free. 
I held it in, as lang as well I could, 
And there 's nae help but I maun let it out ; 
Sae, 'oman, for to mak a lang tale short, 
He grants to tak me, gin I wad work for 't ; 
And fat was that, think ye, but lat them gae, 
Upon the dead of night, their bondage frae 1 
Gin sae I did, that I should gang alang, 
And syne be marry'd with him in a bang. 
Then Noiy says, How comes it, 'oman, then, 
Ye ca' sic couthy fouk unthankfu' men 1 i 

But byde ye yet, says Bydby, ye sail hear, 
And sae ye '11 see nae room sic things to 
speer. 



The Fortunate ShepJierdess. 207 

I plays my part, and lats them win awa ; 

I mounts, and with them aff what we could ca\ 

Twa miles, ere we drew bridle, on we pass'd, 

Syne Lindy looks ahind him, all aghast, 

And says, O Bydby, 'oman, I 've forgot, 

Into yon dreary hole, my Sunday's coat ; 

Now win my bennison, and rin again, 

We '11 bide you here beside this meikle stane. 

For Lindy sure, I wad mak ony shift, 

And back again I scours, what legs could lift ; 

Ere I came back, and well I wat short while 

Was I a-coming, I gets the beguile. 

Naething I finds, seek for them what I list, 

But a toom hale, and sae my mark I mist. 

I shanna tell you, nor can I do yet, 

How sad the set was, that my heart did get. 

Now I might gang as soon and drown mysell, 

As offer hamewith, after what befell ; 

Sae on I gaes, and thinks, and thinks it yet, 

They'd traveli'd aff, lest they a chase should 

get, 
Rather than leave poor me to pine with care, 
That nae sic treatment at their hand did sair. 

Now by this time the tears came rappin' down 
Upon her milk-white breast aneth her gown. 
And Nory's heart was at the tale right sair, 
But her misease came frae another care : 
Her heart for Lindy now began to beal, 
And she 's in swidder great to think him leal : 



2o8 Helenore; or, 



But in her breast she smored the dowie care, 
Nor with the other did her sorrow share ; 
But says, Ye better for him speak, I fear, 
Than what the cause, if sifted right, will bear. 
Well, it may be ; but I '11 hope in the best, 
And sail be at my wit's end or I rest. 
But, O kind lass, gin ye hae ony guess, 
How I should had, when I gae out of this, 
I '11 be obliged to ye, mair nor I can say, 
Nor wad forget it to my dying day. 
Quo' Helenore, The gate I dinna ken, 
But yet to help you would be unco fain ; 
And gin ye 'd gee that bonny keek to me, 
I 'd gang a day with you, and may be three. 
Well mat ye be, she says, the keek yese hae, 
Gin ye wad gang with me but ae bare day ; 
And gin we reach na our tryst's end ere night, 
Or be na of that country in the sight, 
Gin ye gae farrer, I sail gee to you 
This bran-new pouch, of sattin double blue. 

Then Nory says, Content ; but hear me this, 
Ae moment's time we hae na need to miss ; 
Though ye be tired, ye '11 need to rise and 

gang, 
In this short night the sky will cast ere lang ; 
Gin I be mist, as doubtless but I will, 
Ere we set aff, it a' the sport wad spill. 
But I maun see what purchase I can make 
Of cheese and bread, afore the road we take : 



The Fortunate Shepherdess. 209 

For to your cost, I fear, by now ye ken 
What 'tis to tak the hill sae bare the-ben ; 
Sae sit ye still a wee, and I sail be ' 
Back in the very twinkling of an ee. 

Now Nory had twa irons in the fire, 
And had to strike them baith a keen desire : 
First to win hame, by favour of this lass, 
As being fly'd her lane again to pass ; 
The neist, to try gin siccan news were true 
As she had heard frae Bydby but right now ; 
Her word she keeps, and back with speed she 

flees, 
With baith her pouches pang'd with bread and 

cheese, 
Now, lass, she says, we just maun tak the gate, 
And try the hills, though it be dark and late : 
Though it be sae, it better is for me, 
What gate we hald the less our fouks '11 see ; 
For they now trust I to my bed am gane, 
And gin they miss me, they '11 get up ilk ane. 

Well mat ye be, and lat you never ken, 
To your experience, what I dree for men ; 
But gin your strait to me should e'er be kend, 
Ye may be sure to count upon a friend ; 
For fouk '11 say, they ken na what they '11 need, 
And ye the will maun now tak for the deed. 
I mak nae doubt, says Nory ; but we maun 
Mak of our journey now the best we can. 

2 c 



210 Helenore; or, 



With lightsome hearts now up the burn they hey, 
And were well on the road by brak of day. 

Now by this time poor Nory 's mist at hame, 
And for her absence ilk does ither blame. 
The aunt frae Bess is like to pu' the heart, 
Because she did na better play her part ; 
And Bessy's heart is even like to brak, 
And for her does great dool and sorrow mak : 
They wistna fum to send upon the chase, 
Or how to look the squire into the face, 
That wad na be, they kent, to haud nor bind, 
Whan he came back, and her awa should find. 
And as soon as the day was up and clear, 
Baith aunt and dother sought her far and near ; 
But a' was washing of the blackamore, 
They boot turn hame and even gee it o'er. 

The lasses now are linking what they dow, 
And faiked ne'er a foot for height nor how. 
Whan day was up, and bounds seen round about, 
Nory begins to ken her former rout; 
But loot na on, but fairly'd full as fast 
As Bydby could, at a' thing as they past; 
Scream' d at ilk cleugh, and skreech'd at ilka how, 
As loud as she had seen the wirrie-cow.' 
But Lindy's story held her heart asteer, 
And aye, at ilka sae lang, she wad speer, 
And say, you, had your wooer yellow hair % 
Was he weel-legged, cherry-cheek'd, and fair? 



The Fortunate Shepherdess. 2 1 1 

To Flaviana did the lad belang, 
That ye alledge has wrought you a' the wrang % 
Was he in earnest, think ye, whan he spak % 
And for that weary coat bade you gae back % 
Was Colin, say you, the auld shepherd's name % 
Had he of what's befallen you ony blame 1 
Heard ye nae word, gin he had chiel or chare ? 
Or he a jo that had the yellow hair? 
To a' sic questions Bydby made a shift 
To answer, never dreaming Nory's drift. 
'Tis now about th' eleventh hour o' the day, 
And they are posting on whate'er they may : 
Baith het and meeth, till they are hailing down ; 
The sun he dips, and clouds grow thick around ; 
All in a clap, the fire-flaught blinds their eyn, 
The thunder rattles at an unco tune, 
Hurl upon hurl, and just aboon their head, 
They on their faces fell as they were dead. 
And just with this the bowden clouds they brak, 
And pour as out of buckets on their back. 
Now they conclude, that here their turf maun be, 
And lay stane-still, not moving eye nor bree : 
And for misluck, they just were on the height, 
Aye thinking whan the bowt on them wad light. 
For twa lang hours in this sad plight they lay, 
At last the sun shoots out a couthy ray ; 
Sae piece and piece they peep up, as they dow, 
And see main ocean down into the how. 
Fan up they stood, naething but burns they sp/d. 
Tumbling and roaring down on ilka side, 



212 Helenore; or, 



Wi' sic a fearsome hurl, and reefu' rair, 

The neist thing to the thunder in the air. 

What can they do ? downwith they darena budge, 

Their safest course seems in the height to lodge. 

At last and lang the burns began to fa', 

And down the hill they scour'd, what they could ca'; 

Sometimes they wade, sometimes the burns they 

lap, 
And sometimes through on feet and hands they 

crap : 
And by the time they reach' d anither height, 
The sun falls doun, and now 'tis hard on night. 
And naething yet but hills and moors in view, 
Nor mark nor meith that ever Nory knew. 
And by this time poor Bydby wearies sair, 
And her ain hands begins to wring for care. 
But Nory keeps up better heart, and says, 
We manna weary at thir rugged braes ; 
Tyne heart, tyne a', we '11 even tak sic bield 
As thir uncouthy heather-hills can yield; 
The night looks well, the sky well sett and clear, 
Neist day ere night some country may appear. 
We '11 ripe the pouch, and see what scaff is there ; 
I wat, whan I came out, it was na bare. 
Sae doun they sat, by favour of a stane, 
That o'er their heads right couthily did lean. 
Unto their supper now they yaply fa', 
But Bydby's dridder was na quite awa : 
Within her lugs the thunder's roar yet knells, 
As well 's the burns that rumbled wi' sic yells, 



The Fortunate Shepherdess. 213 

She says to Nory, O yon dreadfu' crack, 
I hailumlie thought wad ha been our wrack ; 
Fly'd at my heart, says she, am I, lest we 
Should the neist day in sic sad pickle be. 

Says Nory, Na, yon summer sob is out, 
This night bodes well, spy, 'oman, round about : 
The morn will better prove, I hope, and we 
Ere night may chance some inwith place to see. 
And yet her tongue was fault'ring whan she spak, 
And with plain fear her breast was like to brak. 
But still and on, she wad hae forward been, 
To ken the verity, she was sae keen. 
Syne piece and piece together down they creep, 
And crack till baith dow'd o'er at last asleep. 
Their day-time toil had wrought them sic a 

wrack, 
That ere they jee'd, the sun beat on their back, 
Fain were they baith of the sweet light of day, 
And that the night had steal'd so fast away. 
They rub their eyn, and spy them round about, 
Thinking what gate the day to hald their rout ; 
Nae meiths they had, but norlins still to gae, 
Kenning that gate that Flaviana lay. 

Now frae the height where they had tane their 
bield, 
Far in a how they spy a little sheald ; 
Some peep of reek out at the naip appears : 
What 's yon % at Nory Bydby snaply speers. 



2 1 4 Helenore ; or, 



Then Nory says, I see a house it lane, 

But far nor near of house mair spy I nane, 

What can they be, that win sae by themsell, 

In this wide wilderness, I canna tell : 

Be what they like, I think we '11 gang and speer, 

Says Bydby, gin our tryst's end we be near. 

I wat na, Nory says, they J re may be men, 

Nae woman sure can win in sic a glen ; 

And may be Kettrin. I hae heard fouk say, 

That they aft wake all night, and sleep all day. 

Tak in fouk's nout and sheep, and eat them there ; 

That they be such, is borne upon me sair. 

Na, Bydby says, I dinna think it sae, 

I see a bught beyond it on a brae. 

Somebody here is shealing with their store, 

In summer time, I 've heard the like afore. 

We '11 cast about, and come upon the bught. 

Content, says Nory, it is nae ill thought ; 

I think I see 't mysell, we '11 wear inby, 

Gin we ; 11 win there, it 's time to milk the ky ; 

Sae down they fare, and rough, rough, was the 

brae, 
With craigs and scrabs all scatter' d in the way. 
As they drew near, they heard an elderin dey, 
Singing full sweet at milking of her ky : 
In by they come, and hailst her couthily. 1 
The wife looks up a little in surprise, 
And leaning o'er the bught the maidens spies ; 
And taks hersell and says, Ye. 're welcome here, 
This day ye seem to be right soon asteer. 



The Fortunate Shepherdess. 2 1 5 

Quo' they, We hae gane will, been out all night, 

And spy'd this sheal, and came to be set right : 

Be but so kind as tell us where we be, 

Ye 's hae our thanks, it 's all that we can gie. 

Quo' she, Unto the sheal step ye o'er by, 

And warm yoursell till I milk out my ky ; 

This morning raw, gin ye Ve all night been out, 

That ye wad thole a warm I mak na doubt, 

And something mair, Ise warrant : ca' your wa', 

The door 's wide open, nae sneck ye hae to draw. 

Put on a cow till I come o'er the gate, 

And do the best ye can to had you het. 

The lasses bidding does, and o'er they gaes, 

And of bleech'd birns pat on a canty blaze. 

Content were they at sic a lucky kile, 

And thought they had na gotten a beguile. 

On skelfs around the sheal the cogs were set, 

Ready to ream, and for the cheese be het. 

A hake was frae the rigging hanging fu' 

Of quarter kebbocks, tightly made and new. 

Behind the door a calour heather bed, 

Flat on the floor with stanes and feal was made. 

And lucky shortly follow'd o'er the gate, 

With twa milk buckets frothing o'er and het ; 

Syne ream'd her milk, and set it on the fire, 

And bade them eek the blaze, and nae to tire : 

That curds their wameful they should get in haste, 

As good and fresh as any needs to taste. 

Sair looked she on Nory's bonny face, 

And says, Young lass, I wiss you mickle grace ; 



216 Helenore ; or, 



Sweet are your looks, and of good nature fu', 
He '11 get nae blind, that chances to get you.* 
Well look ye baith, I didna mean to lack 
The ane, when I but of the other spak : 
Nae of the warst ye look as ye were come, 
But of the best of country fouk, and some. 
Ye baith for me may ae man's bairns be, 
And may be no, it maks naething to me. 
What cast has feshen you sae far frae towns % 
I 'm sure to you thir canna be ken'd bouns ; 
Ten miles frae ony town this shealing lies, 
And to see here sic twa is my surprise, 
And still the mair at sic a time of day : 
'Twould seem indeed that ye had tint your way. 
Says Nory till her, Is the fairly great, 
Here, and sae early too, sic twa to get 1 
As great 's our fairly to see you dwell here, 
Sae far frae towns, nor any neiper near; 
I wonder just ye dinna die for fear ; 
But are the cows your ain, gin I may speer % 
O never ane of them belangs to me, 
They are the laird's, well may his honour be : 
My ain gueed chid, that sucked me full sweet, 
And 's aye kind to me whan we chance to meet. 
These twenty simmers now I hae been here, 
And he aye came to see me ilka year ; 
Save this alane, but well I ken the cause, 
The faut 's nae his, but his heart-bound papa's. 

[* Your bonny rose-red cheeks and blinking eyn 

Minds me upon a face I've sometime seen.] — 1st Ed. 



The Fortunate Shepherdess. 217 

But thanks to Praise, I hear the carle 's dead, 
My bairn will now get leave to lift his head, 
And of a warldly hulgy-back get free, 
That dad designed his wedded wife to be. 
Now he will get his choice, whom he likes best, 
Since the auld churle has tane him till a rest. 
Afore lang days, I hope to see him here, 
About his milkness and his cows to speer. 

Now Nory, hearing this, began to guess, 
This was the squire that took her frae distress. 
And at her speers, how they his style did ca', 
The wife replies, His style is Bonnyha' ; 
And bonny is 't, and wealthy, wealthy he, 
Well will she fa' that wins his wife to be. 
Now Nory kens she in her guess was right, 
But loot na wi 't, that she had seen the knight, 
But at her speers, How far frae this away, 
She thought the Braes of Flaviana lay % 
Nae near, my chiel, she says, but ye are wrang, 
To Flaviana gin ye mean to gang ; 
O'er high by far ye've tane up through the glen, 
Of miles frae it ye are na down of ten ; 
Gang east, but aye some northward had your cast, 
Till ye a bonny water see at last. 

With thir injunctions they their course pursue, 
And gee auld lucky thanks, as was her due. 
Right cheerfully they did the road take in, 
And thought that night to their tryst's end to win ; 



218 Helenore ; or, 



And would hae done 't, but Nory, wha had aye 
A mind the truth of Bydby's tale to try, 
Made shift by bout-gates to put aff the day, 
Till night should fa', and then be forced to stay ; 
Meaning neist day to send the lass before, 
When they should be in sight of Lindy's door, 
Syne follow fast hersell, and just slip in 
Upon them, ere they wist, but ony din. 
Accordingly, ere they the water wan, 
That the auld dey tauld near the country ran, 
Night fa's, and they maun tak the chance < 

bield, 
Anes mair, that glens and hill and heather yield. 
Their forward minds that night took little sleep ; 
Again they turst as soon 's the day did peep. 
In a short space they soon the water fand. 
Says Bydby, Flaviana's now at hand ; 
Well fell me now, my lad I '11 shortly see, 
And at the sight blythe at the heart I '11 be. 

As they the water past, and up the brae, 
Whare Nory mony a time had wont to play, 
Her heart with neatty grief began to rise, 
Whan she sae greatly alter'd saw the guise. 
No herds nor gueeds were now to be seen there, 
But all was toom, all heartless like, and bare. 
Her dowie pain she could no more conceal ; 
The heart, they say, will never lie that 's leal ; 
For whan they wan the height, and, in the how, 
Spy'd out the bigging by a bonny know ; 



The Fortunate Shepherdess. 219 

She says, My heart is like to gang awa', 
And I maun e'en sit down, or else I ; 11 fa' : 
But yonder 's houses, 'oman, gang and speer 
Gin we be unto Flaviana near : 
Gin we be right, I '11 ken, as ye bide still ; 
Gin we be wrang, ye '11 come again and tell ; 
And 1 11 rest here, till I come to mysell. 

Then Bydby frankly taks the gate before, 
And was na lang ere she reach'd Lindy's door. 
That by the cast of ground the nearest lay, 
Just at the bottom of a sunny brae. 
My lass slips in, says calmly, Peace be here ! 
Is this, or is ; t to Flaviana near 1 
Lindy was sitting in the house him lane, 
With heart for Nory heavy like a stane ; 
Lifts up his head, looking to the door, 
Sees Bydby standing just upon the floor. 
Th' unwelcome sight pat to his heart a knell, 
That he was hardly master of himsell ; 
Yet says, Come ben, ah, Bydby, is that ye ? 
Foul fa' that coat, that you sic cark did gee : 
Ye might ha flung 't awa' and turn'd again, 
Of half your travel it 's nae worth the pain ; 
But, maks-na, since ye 're come, yese be well paid ; 
Sit down and rest you, and right now yese hae 't. 
The worth o't twice in claith or waith yese get, 
I canna say but I am in your debt. 
Ah ! Lindy ! is this ye 1 well fell mysell, 
But wae 's me, that ye should sic tidings tell ; 



220 Helenore; or, 



Your claith and waith will never tell with me, 
Tho' ye a thousand laids thereof could gee ; 
I am well sair'd o' claith, since I took gate, 
That coat of yours has geen me sic a sett. 
But out of jest, for claith I came na here, 
But for the thing that was by far mair dear ; 
'Twas for yoursell, man, that I dreed this pain, 
Sae ony ither proffers are but vain ; 
Wad I, think ye, for less hae follow'd you 1 
Or can I think that less can be my due 1 
Was 't na your paction, ere I loot you gae, 
That just yoursell I for my hire should hae 1 
Alas ! alas ! o'er late it seems I find, 
I first was left, and now am come behind. 
But think na, man, that I '11 be set aff sae, 
For I '11 hae satisfaction ere I gae. 
Ise get a hire 1 — a bonny tale, indeed ! 
Ye spak na that gate in your time of need. 
Where 's Colin 1 Ise refer my part to him, 
And gin he says I 'm wrang, Ise quit my claim 
He witness'd all that past, and shar'd himsell 
Part of the gueed, and can the better tell. 
Well, I 'm content, says Lindy, gin he say 't ; 
There 's be nae mair about it, ye shall hae 't. 
This spake he, lippening Colin would deny, 
And sae between them score poor Bydby by. 
As they are at this dibberderry thrang, 
And Bydby still complaining of her wrang, 
Jean, wha had seen her coming o'er the moor, 
Supposing 't Nory, slips in at the door. 



The Fortunate Shepherdess. 221 

She never minds her, but tells on her tale, 
Right bauld and bardach, likely-like, and hail. 
Jean was astonish'd sic a threap to see, 
And wist na whom to blame or whom to free ; 
But thought indeed, gin sicken things were 

true, 
That Nory had right fast slipt out of view. 

Now, by this time, poor Nory 's mair nor fain, 
The truth of Bydby's unco tale to ken ; 
And just at Lindy's door came slipping in, 
When they are in the fixfax of their din, 
Jean looks about her, and her Nory spies, 
Judge ye, gin she met not with a surprise. 
Out gush'd her eyn, but word she could na say, 
Sae hamphis'd was she atween glee and wae. 
Her in her oxter hard and fast she grips, 
And press'd her speechless mou' upon her lips. 
Lindy looks also butt, and Nory spies, 
And, O my Nory, here 's my Nory ! cries. 
Flaught bred upon her, butt the house he sprang, 
And frae her mother's oxter fiercelings wrang, 
And O my Nory ! O my Nory ! cries. 
Sweet, sweet indeed, to me is this surprise ! 
Kisses upon her he birs'd on anew ; 
But she was shy, and held her head askew, 
And cries, Lat be, ye kiss but lucky fast, 
Ye 're o'er well used, I fear, since we met last. 
Looks at him with the baw-waw of her eye, 
As dram and dorty, as young miss wad be 



222 Helenore ; or, 



To country Jock, that needs wad hae a kiss, 

Nolens or volens, frae the dainty miss. 

Thir words awee did slocken Lindy's fire, 

And put some let to his sae bauld desire. 

Blyth at the heart was Bydby at the sight, 

And thought indeed that she had sair'd him right ; 

But thought the sheep she 'd gien the wolf to haud, 

Whan she had choice of sic a neiper made : 

And turning till her, says, I find that now 

I plaid wrang cards, when I set out with you : 

I might hae kent, had I not senseless been, 

That ye for noth wad not be hauf sae keen. 

But, maks-na, be the matter as it may, 

To stap your claim I have enough to say ; 

Whatever might atween you been before ; 

I 'm sure that I was last into the score. 

I have his hand and troth, and what needs mair % 

Cross 't gin he can, just where he 's standing there. 

'Tis nae sic thing, says Lindy, or gin I 

Some sic like words might happen then to say, 

They've been but said to please a fool like you, 

Nae man of ten likes women them to woo ; 

For our acquaintance was but lucky short, 

For me or ony man to play sic sport. 

Why did ye sae 1 says Bydby, for ye had 

In your ain hand to hadd, baith heft and blade ; 

Tho' I did wiss 't indeed, and wiss 't it sair, 

That ye were mine, e'en ilka hilt and hair, 

I could na force you to gie your consent, 

But since ye gae 't, ye should na now repent. 



The Fortunate Shepherdess. 223 

Nor need ye mak a feint to tell me now, 

Ye never meant to stand by sic a vow ; 

But only please a witless fool like me ; 

But say, play bairns, your fool I winna be. 

Twas earnest wark, lad, that I did for you, 

And ye maun deal with me in earnest now. 

I 've play'd my part, I fear, and something mair, 

Play you now yours, and be to me as fair : 

And I sail tell you ae thing, that 's nae twa, 

Our lads and ye '11 about it pluck a craw ; 

For forty groats I wadna stand your stour, 

Gin they this gate but tak anither tour ; 

And sure am I, that it will not be lang 

Till they be here, complaining of their wrang. 

That Nory's come, the news is now ding- 
dang, 
And all the neipers unto Lindy's thrang. 
Colin, her father, who had outwith gane, 
But heard it last, and sae came in him lane. 
As he came in, him glegly Bydby spy'd, 
And, Welcome, Colin, mair nor welcome ! cry'd ; 
Come ben, and red this threap, for ye can tell 
The verity, 'cause ye was there yoursell j 
Ken all that past, ear and eye witness was 
To all that did 'tweesh me and Lindy pass. 
Come, Colin, now, and give me kyle about, 
I helped you, whan nane else wad, I doubt. 
Naething but justice I now crave of you, 
To take me, tell, gin Lindy didna vow. 



224 Helenore; or, 



Tho' I 'm among you cast like a slung stane, 
I was like ither fouk at hame, ye ken ; 
And gin ye had but play'd me haflins fair, 
I needed na hae dreed sa meikle care. 
But maks-na, now I 'm here ; sae plainly tell, 
The naked truth afore the lad himsell. 

Syne Colin says, I do indeed confess, 
Ye lent 's a lift in our right great distress ; 
For cause of which I own it 's gueed our part, 
With our best wiss, that ever ye be sair'd : 
And ye sail find it sae afore we part. 
And though 'tis true, and true it is, I grant, 
To marry you that Lindy made a vaunt, 
'Cause we were at a pinch to win awa', 
But to the head the nail ye maunna ca\ 
To say that ye was geck'd ye 's hae nae need, 
We '11 gee a hitch unto your tocher-gueed. 
Well are. ye worth it at our hands the day, 
And ye sail get it with you ere ye gae. 
Na, Colin, na, 'tis well ye tell the truth, 
At hame of tocher-gueed I hae a fouth ; 
'Twas not for gear that I my fouks forsook, 
And ran the hazard of their sair down-look. 
Na, by my troth it : Lindy 's what I want ; 
By promise mine, as ye right now did grant. 
Speak nae mair of your hires, 'tis he alane 
Sail be my hire, for ither I '11 hae nane. 
Ah ! but, says Colin, ye should na gird sae sair, 
What winna fouk engage that 's under care 1 



The Fortunate Shepherdess. 225 

_ 

With premunire hamper'd as were we, 
Fouk wad say ony thing to set them free. 
Gin great your premunire was, she said, 
Ye sud the better mind how ye was freed. 
But words I winna langer using be, 
Nor will sic aff-sets do the turn with me : 
For hailumly to take me he did bind, 
And hae 'm I will, there 's nae a word behind. 
But Colin says, What if he dinna like you % 
Ye 'd better want him than he sud begeck you. 
'Tis all ane, says she, him I like fu' sair, 
And that he wad like me, I hae no fear ; 
Had of the bargain we made an outred, 
We's no be heard upon the midden-head. 
That he 's gueed natur'd ony ane may see 
That 's nae stane blind, or has but half an eye. 
Syne Colin says, But ye may be mista'en, 
The face has been a cheat to mony ane : 
Aft the still sow will eat up a' the draff, 
When canker'd looks prove nae sae ill by hauf ; 
Mony '11 bite and sup, with little din, 
That wad na gree a straik, at mooling in : 
Sae gin the face be what ye lippen till, 
Ye may hae little cause to roose your skill. 
Maks na, quo she, gin I my hazard tak, 
Small sturt may other fouks about it mak. 

By now, all eyn upon them sadly gaz'd, 
And Lindy looked blate and sair bombaz'd ; 
The collyshangy rose to sick a height, 

2 e 



226 Helenore; or, 



That, maugre him, things wad na now hald right ; 
For Nory's heart began to cool full fast, 
When she fand things had taken sic a cast. 
And sae throw ither warpl'd were, that she 
Began to dread atweesh them what might be. 
And even thought her travel but ill wair'd, 
For her convoy, and but hersel ill sair'd ; 
And frae her heart she wisht she hadna been 
In coming aff with Bydby half so keen. 
For what she fear'd, she now in earnest fand, 
About this threap, was close come till her hand, 
And that, tho' Lindy, may be, might ly too, 
The lass had just as gueed a right as she : 
And that the bargain might hae little thrift, 
To bring it on tho' they sud mak.a shift. 
But still her mind she keepid till hersel, 
But, oh, her heart fand mony a dreary knell ! 
But she was sure, whan Lindy's eyn war set 
The way to her, to look the ither gate. 



Now, by this time, the house is heels o'er head, 
For aething some, and some anither said ; 
That day nor doer, a bodie coud na hear, 
For every thing was put in sic a steer. 
And Colin and his wife were mair nor fain 
To crack with Nory, and her story ken., 
With great hamstram they thrimled thro' the thrang, 
And gae a nod to her to after gang. 
Upon the green they lean'd them down all three, 
And tears for fainness ran frae ilka eye. 



The Fortunate Shepherdess. 227 

Lassie, what was 't came o'er thee, Colin says, 
At sic a time of night to tak the braes % 
I mair nor fairly, what coud be your haste, 
Ye coud na think to succour man nor beast ; 
Sad 's been the heart-crack ye to us hae gien, 
And dowy for your sake my hap has been ; 
And dowy yet is like to be our day. 
About this threap ; yon cummer is na play. 

Then Nory, with her finger in her eye, 
With heart as great 's a peat, begins to free 
Hersel to them the best way that she mought, 
Saying, Yon dreary news set me a-flought ; 
And ere I took mysel, I had o'ergane 
All meiths or marks afore within my ken ; 
As mark as pick night down upon me fell ; 
What my condition was, I canna tell. 
My fae lat never be sae hard bestead, 
Or forc'd to byde the bydings that I baid. 
Sic youts and yells, as wad hae. thirl' d a stane, 
Was never heard, as I heard there my lane. 
Whan day came in, and welcome was the sight, 
After the eery, black, and fearsome night, 
Nae airths I kend, nor what was east by west, 
But took the road, as it lay in my cast, 
Thus with a dowie heart and hungry weam, 
I wander' d, wissing that I were at hame, 
But wistna whether I made till 't or frae 't : 
But for the herds and gueeds ill was I paid. 
What ganks I met with, now I sanna tell, 



228 Helenore; or, 



But at the last upon a burn I fell, 
With bonny even road, and inwith set, 
Ye might have row'd an apple all the gate. 
Sicklike I mind afttimes to hear you tell, 
That fouk sud follow when they hae gane will ; 
This I '11 had down, but hot, hot was the day, 
The simmer cauts were dancing brae frae brae. 
Wi' faut and heat, I just was like to swelt, 
And in a very blob of sweat to melt ; 
Nae help there was, but there lay doun my head 
Aneth a tree, and wait for welcome dead. 
I hadna lang beneath the shadow lain, 
Whan sleep crap on me, and beguil'd my pain. 
Three hours, as I by time of day coud guess, 
At ease I lay, and had sweet happiness ; 
But whan I waj^en'd, to my great surprise, 
Wha 's standing, but a laird afore my eyes 1 
The bonniest youth that ever I had seen, 
Wi' yellow strips clad in a coat of green. 
Upon a bow he leaa'd his milk-white hand ; 
A bonny boy a thoughty aff did stand. 
Great shame I thought sae to be gotten there, 
And was for fear the neist thing to despair : 
In running aff lay my relief, I thought, 
But of my claise he took a swippert claught ; 
Bade me no fear, for I sud kaip no skaith, 
To do me wrang, that he wad be right laith ; 
He spak sae kindly, couthy-like and fair, 
And pray'd to tell what way I had come there ; 
That at mair saught my mind began to be. 



The Fortunate Shepherdess. 229 

And he some meat his laddie gar'd gee me. 

Neist he persuades to gang with him all night, 

Whare I sud be well ta'en about and right. 

Gin night, we came unto a gentle place, 

And, as he promis'd, sae I fand the case. 

Kind was the lady, for no men I saw, 

And bedded me with her ain dother braw. 

Well was I there, I wiss I 'd bidden still, 

Had ye but kend I hadna met with ill. 

But ae night as I 'm spying out-about, 

With heart unsettled aye, ye need na doubt, 

Wha coming gatewards to me does I see, 

But this snell lass, that came the day with me % 

Sae finding she for Flaviana sought, 

There is a happy kyle for me, I thought. 

Sae what needs mair % together aff we came, 

And o'er high hills, and fearsome doughs we clamb. 

Ralph, meantime, from the door comes with a rin, 
And pray'd that Jean and Nory wad gang in, 
And try gin they yon fiery lass coud tame, 
That with her tongue had set all in a flame : 
And tries sae hard yon heartless lad to gird, 
That he looks just as he 'd drap thro' the yird. 
Quo' Jean, Wese try • but she looks ill to ca', 
And o'er auld-mou'd, I reed, is for us a'. 
As they gang in, Ralph unto Colin says, 
Yon hobbleshow is like some stour to raise : 
What think ye o't 1 for, as we use to say, 
The web seems now all to be made of wae. 



230 Helenore; or, 



Says Colin, for he was a sicker boy, 

Neiper, I fear this is a kittle ploy ; 

Gin we the gully guide na now with can, 

'T may chance to gee 's a sneck into the hand : 

Yon lass maun not be dung, but dauted sair, 

It winna do to kaim against the hair. 

At first I thought but little of the thing, 

But mischief's mother 's but like midge's wing. 

I never dream'd things wad hae gane this length, 

But we have e'en seen shargers gather strength, 

That seven years hae sitten in the net, 

And yet have bangsters on their boddom set. 

That sic '11 be the case I now dread sair, 

Sae we '11 be fools to tamper with her mair. 

But with hersel had we alane to do, 

We might find shifts for stappin' of her mou', 

And even that, I doubt, would cost a pu\ 

But we hae all her country's fead to byde, 

O'er great a force by far for our weak side. 

We all, but maist the lad himsel and I, 

Ken they 're nae fouks for our weak hands to try. 

She pleads a promise, and 'tis very true ; 

But he had naething but a jamphing view : 

But she in gnaping earnest taks it a', 

The bargain was, that she sud lat 's awa'. 

She plaid her part, and freed us frae our ,care, 

And now halds out, that we sud be as fair. 

Of her afore we try'd to shak us free, 

But she has scented out the road, ye see. 

Great waters aften rise frae little springs, 



The Fortmiate Shepherdess. 231 

And there is e'en a providence in things. 

By rackligence she with my lassie met, 

That wad be fain her company to get ; 

Wha, in her daffery, had run o'er the score, 

And that has even brought her to our door. 

Gin we fyke on till her ain fouks come here, 

Ye '11 see the toun intill a bonny steer ; 

For they're a thrawn and root-hewn cabbrach pack, 

And stark like stanes, and soon wad be our wrack, 

Sae we had better jook until the jaw 

Gang o'er our heads, than stand afore 't and fa', 

And sae I think it best ye bid the lad 

Lay 's hand to 's heart, and to the bargain had ; 

For I am much mistane, gin, at the last, 

To gang together be not found the best. 

Says Ralph, Well, neiper, I hae heard your tale, 
And even fairly at it ilka deal. 
Kenning that ye 're nae strange to what has been, 
Your lassie and my laddie lang between ; 
And even we had 'greed it 'tween oursels : 
Sic counsel now but of unkindness smells. 

Ye needna fairly, Ralph, nor be in ire, 
Says Colin, for burnt bairns dread the fire. 
Had ye come throw their fingers as did I, 
Ye wad na be in swidder to comply ; 
I '11 wad my head, ere four-and-twenty hours, 
That what 's my mind the day, had then been yours, 
For the Sevitians will, but doubt, be here, 



232 Helenore ; or, 



To dacker for her, as for robbed gear ; 

And what hae we a-conter them to say 1 

The gear '11 prove itsell gin we deny. 

They '11 threap we stole her, she '11 hald till 't hersel, 

And syne will naething be but sad pell-mell. 

Syne dool fells us, the weak aye wins the waur, 

Sae we at first had better to take care. 

Well, neiper, Ralph replies, I ken that ye 
Had aye a gueed and sound advice to gie ; 
For it 's nae yesterday, that I could spy, 
That ye could things see farrer through than I ; 
Sae, for my part, I 'm willing to submit 
To what your glegger wisdom shall think fit. 
Gin that unhappy lad wad be sae wise, 
As but ly too, and tak your good advice. 
Quo' he, Ye canna better do than try ; 
Ye's hae my input to gar him comply. 
Cry ye him forth, wese till him lay the lines, 
Hese do 't, or else what halds on me he tines. 

Ralph does his bidding, and out Lindy comes, 
His father says, Lay by, man, thir humdrums, 
And look na hiair like Watty to the worm ; 
Gin ye hae promis'd, what but now perform 1 
Among us all a ravell'd hesp ye 've made, 
And now put to your hand, and help to red, 
Ye ken yoursel best where ye tint the end, 
Sae ye maun foremost gae the miss to mend. 
'Tis nae to mird wi' unco fouk, ye see, 



The Fortunate Shepherdess. 233 

Nor is the blear drawn easy o'er their e'e. 
Ye hae yoursel with yon snell maiden locked, 
That winna thole wi' afT-sets to be joked; 
And sae, my lad, my counsel's, ye be lown, 
And tak a drink of sic as ye hae brewn. 
That's out of jest, and in snell earnest, spark, 
As ye began, sae now conclude the wark. 

Says Lindy, Father, this is hard enough, 
Against ane's will to coup him o'er the heugh, 
With his eyn open on the fearsome skaith : 
To play sic pranks I will be very laith. 
That ye car'd naething, it would vively seem, 
Whether poor I sud either sink or swim. 
But since ye've casten a careless count 'bout me, 
I maunna sae, but to mysel maun see ; 
Sae I maun tell you ae thing, that 's nae twa, 
I '11 sooner tak wild Scot of Gallowa'. 
Baith ye and Colin ken my mind was set, 
These seven years and mair, anither gate ; 
I wadna think sic twa wise fouk as ye 
Wad to your ain sic wrangous counsel gie, 
I wat na well gin ye had thankful been 
To ony that had you sic counsel geen, 
Whan ye were young, and had your fancy fix'd ; 
At your ain hearts, I fear, ye had been vext ; 
And mony a time hae I e'en heard you baith 
Say, ye to cross your little anes wad be laith. 

Well, Lindy man, says Colin, that 's all true ; 

2 F 



234 Helenore; or, 



But then was then, my lad, and now is now : 

'Bout then-a-days, we 'd never met with cross, 

Nor kend the ill of conters, or of loss. 

But now the cause is alter'd very sair, 

And we sair new'd and kaim'd against the hair, 

We now maun tak the warld as it wags, 

And for hail claith e'en be content with rags. 

Anes on a day, we thought the wind wad blaw 

Aye on our backs ; that warld 's now awa', 

And this is come, and we may not strive wi't, 

But e'en submit : the life, my lad, is sweet. 

Whan all 's awa', we strive to keep that grip, 

And tak odd shifts, afore we let it slip. 

For Nory, man, ye needna fash your thumb, 

Nor keep her mair intill anither's room. 

I loor by far, she 'd die like Jenkin's hen, 

Ere we again met yon unruly men. 

Sae there 's nae time to swidder 'bout the thing, 

I '11 wad her country-lads sail no be dring 

In seeking her, and making us to rue, 

That ever we their name or nature knew ; 

Nae farrer back 'bout them need we to look, 

Than how oursells they did sae sadly nook. 

Thus at their bargain we the lads maun leave, 
Till of the Squire some short account w,e give ; 
Who, to his aunt returning, miss'd his pout, 
And was in unco rage, ye need na doubt : 
And for her was just like to burn the town, 
And for to find her shortly maks him bown ; 



The Fortunate Shepherdess. 235 

Conveens his friends to help him, far and near, 
And to the mountains did his journey steer ; 
And thro' the glen with wondrous speed id hy, 
Where his auld mammy kept his store and ky. 
Blyth was the wife her foster-son to see, 
And sain'd him o'er and o'er right heartily ; 
And tauld him, that she now was mair nor fain, 
That kind gueed luck had latten him till his ain, 
Afore mishap had forced him to comply 
Unto a match to which he was so thry. 

Well, says he, mammy, all that 's very gueed ; 
But, come, let's try how tastes your cheese and 

bread ; 
And meantime gee 's a waught of caller whey, 
This day 's been hot, and we are wondrous dry. 
Your honour sail get that, just in a stound, 
And my sweet bennison to put it doun ; 
For with your ain 'tis fit ye sud be sair'd, 
And were it mine, well wad I think it wair'd. 

But, says the Squire, saw ye nae unco lass, 
Some of thir days, down thro' the forest pass 1 
Indeed, quo' she, but yesterday, I saw, 
Nae farer gane, gang by here lasses twa, 
That had gane will, and been the-forth all night. 
But, oh, ane of them was a seelfu sight ! 
Blind mat I be, and I am now threescore, 
Gin e'er I saw the maik of her afore ! 
Her yellow hair, that up in curlies row'd, 



236 Helenore; or, 



Look'd in the sun just like the threads of goud. 

The ither, too, was a right setting lass, 

Though forthersome : but meek this lassie was. 

Afore I wist, they just were hard in by, 

As I was busy milking at my ky ; 

At me syn shortly they began to speer, 

Gin they were unto Flaviana near. 

For Flaviana, speer'd they 1 said the Squire ; 

Heard ye nae word, what was their errand there ? 

Indeed, an't like your honour, I dinna ken, 

For me to speer wad no gueed havins been. 

I gae them curds and milk, and thought indeed, 

That of some sust'nance they had meikle need : 

And, by my guess, I strove to set them right ; 

Syne in a glent they were out of my sight. 

The Squire, whan he awee had chaw'd his cud 
On Lucky's tale, does wi' himsell conclude, 
Whate'er the other might have been, that she 
Wha sae was roos'd must his ain Nory be. 
Well, says the Squire, 'twas gueed ye gar'd them eat, 
Among thir hills fouk ay has need o' meat : 
Wha kens but sickan kindness may meet you, 
And be some day unto you worth a cow. 
Lat nane gae hungry by, that ye see here, 
But gie them aye part of your country cheer : 
I will allow 't ; yese nae be scrimp'd of meal, 
And ye hae fouth of milk, I see, yoursell. 
'Tis cryin' sin, quoth she, to wrang the dead, 
The Laird aye bade me deal a piece of bread ; 



The Fortunate Shepherdess. 237 

And I thought aye ye wad break naething aff; 
I mind ye liked aye to see a raff. 

Well, nurse, says he, knit on on the auld thrum, 

And gee nae ground to say a worse is come : 

Whate'er ye did afore, do better now, 

He 's nae your fae, that has to count with you. 

But hark ye, noorise, what I 'm gaing to say, 

We will be back within a day or twae ; 

Upon your milk your skilly hand you '11 try, 

And gee 's a feast o 't, as we 're coming by. 

A well I wat, quo' she, I '11 do my best, 

With half a dizen of sorts, to please your taste : 

Blythsome and well, my cheel, mat ye come back, 

And binna angry at my hamely crack : 

For well I ken what is your honour's due; 

But let a word with your auld mammy now, 

And hear me this ae word, my bonny laird, 

All that I 've done I '11 think the better wair'd, 

That a young lady I see you fetch hame, 

Ye '11 no thram well, as lang 's ye lie your lane. 

Well, mammy, quo' he, Ise tak your advice, 

And hae ane of them, gin they binna nice. 

Nae fear of that, quo she ; be nice ! ha, ha, 

To tak the wealthy laird of Bonny-ha"? 

They're nae sic fools, you might have ten for 

ane, 
Were it the fashion, as they say has been. 
Well worth her room was your gueed lady mither, 
See ye, like her, gin ye can wale anither. 



238 Helenore; or, 



Now by the time that they a piece had tane, 
All in a brattle to the gate are gane ; 
And soon are out o' the auld noorise' sight, 
To dress her milk hersel wha shortly dight. 
Sic speed they made that in an hour or two, 
The braes of Flaviana were in view ; 
Of well-drest footmen, five or six, or more, 
At a gueed rake were running on before. 

Now all this time baith Ralph and Colin try 
Their utmost art to gar the lad comply ; 
But he continu'd obstinate and thry. 
As they 're thus throng, the gentles come in view, 
All in a breast, upon a bonny brow. 
Amazed at the sight, they stood stane -still, 
As gin on them some witch had try'd her skill, 
Nae word they spak, till they came close in-by, 
The sight amo' them had rais'd sic a fry. 
The Squire, that foremost rade in armour sheen, 
Cry'd, Stop, my friends, and lighted on the green. 
To the three men then shortly turns, that gaz'd, 
And looked doited, speechless, and bumbaz'd ; 
And to them says, Friends, be so kind as tell, 
Gin hereabouts does ane hight Colin dwell. 
This question made the shepherds sae agast, 
That, as the quaking asp, they shook as, fast. 
Nae kenning what to think or what to say ; 
Or what to do with Colin sic coud hae. 
Soon coud he see they were with fear o'ertane, 
And coothily bespeaks them thus again : 



The Fortunate Shepherdess. 239 

Fear na, gueed shepherds, fear na at this sight, 

We never meant to put you in a fright : 

For peace we 're come, and only want to ken 

Gin ane hight Colin wins into this glen. 

Aweel, an 't like your honour, Colin says, 

Indeed, ane of that name wins in thir Braes ; 

But it is mair nor strange, what ane like you 

Sud hae with sic a hame-bred man to do ; 

For well I wat, I never yet did wrang 

To great nor small, sin I had pith to gang. 

Are you the man 1 the Squire soon maks reply. 

I am, he says ; my name I '11 not deny. 

The Squire, as soon 's the verity he fand, 

Straight taks the honest shepherd by the hand ; 

Wha, wondering at the kindness, gae a jouk, 

But did confus'd and unco shameful look. 

Soon coud the Squire his blate confusion see, 

And says, Tak heart, ye's get nae wrang frae 

me, 
But all the gueed that 's in my power to do. 
Now tell me, does this house belang to you ? 
'Deed no, he says, but mine is just at hand, 
And it and I are baith at your command. 
'Tis true, 'tis barer than it wont to be, 
But wha themselves can from mischances free 1 
Nae mony days aback, I mair coud say ; 
But fouk sud not be vain of what they hae. 
I 've heard sae, says the Squire, but never mind, 
Nor at sic woful antercasts repine ; 
'Tis but a cloud afore the fair sunshine. 



240 Helenore; or, 



Ye '11 see anither change, ere four days gang, 
And ye be just as right as ye was wrang. 

As they're sae cracking, a' the house thrangs 
out, 
Gouping and gazing at the new come rout. 
With some surprise the Squire beholds the thrang, 
And speers gin all did till ae house belang ; 
And scarce had said it, when out at the door, 
Just at her mither's back, comes Helenore. 
He sees the sight, then with a fiercelins bang, 
Out through the thickest of the croud he sprang, 
And in a hint he claspt her hard and fast, 
With bath his gardies round about the waist, 
And laid a thousand on her bonny mou', 
That was as red as rose that ever grew. 
Then said, Sweet Nory, ye was sair to blame 
Sae to gang aff, afore that I came hame ; 
But since we 're met, I think my pains well wair'd; 
There sail be news again afore we part. 
Poor shameful Nory wist na how to look, 
Sae to be kist afore sae mony fouk. 
Look up she coudna, but her apron strings, 
As fast 's she coud, row'd out and in, in rings. 
But, oh, the unco gazing that was there, 
Upon poor Nory and her gentle Squire ! i 
And ae thing some, and some anither said, 
But very few of faults poor Nory freed ; 
Though that she faultless was maun be allow'd ; 
But travell'd women are but synle trow'd. 



The Fortunate Shepherdess. 241 

But all their cushle-mushle was bat jest 
Unto the coal that brunt in Lindy's breast. 
Sad were the dunts and knells yeed to his heart, 
To think that Nory had misplaid her part ; 
And now begins to think 'twas nae for nought, 
That of his dauting she so little sought, 
Whan sic a Squire about her was sae thrang ; 
Out of his wits he just was like to mang ; 
Thinking for her to come to sic a pass, 
And all was now but scores among the ase. 

But sic a crowd the Squire surpris'd to see, 
At Colin speers what coud the meaning be. 
Indeed, an't like your honour, Colin says, 
Sic ither threap saw I not all my days 
As now is here ; but wimpFd is the tale, 
Ye 'd weary sair afore I tell'd it hail. 
But gin to red it ye wad please to try, 
'Twould be an act indeed of charity. 
Let 's hear 't, he says, and I sail do my best, 
Gin on my sentence parties like to rest : 
Tell on your tale, and naething thereof miss. 
I sail, quo Colin, and the tale is this. 

Frae this aback, and that nae mony days, 

A band of Kettrin hamphis'd all our braes, 

Ca'd aff our gueeds at twelve hours of the day, 

Nor had we maughts to turn again the prey. 

Sair bargain made the herds to turn again ; 

But what needs mair 1 all was but wark in vain. 

2 g 



242 Helenore; or y 



The herds came hame, and made a reeful rair, 
And all the Braes rang loud with dool and care. 
My lassie, whom it seems that you have seen, 
Frae kindness this day shawn her on the green, 
Like ane hare-brain'd unto the glen taks gate, 
Whan now the night was growing mark and late. 
With our surprise she 's nae miss'd till the morn, 
And now her mither on me blaws the horn, 
And I maun aff and seek her right or wrang, 
And mony a bootless foot did for her gang : 
And at the last I fell amang my faes, 
The cruel Kettrin of Sevitia's braes. 
And that lad there ye see with yellow hair, 
With me did of the worst of chances share. 
Into their hands we baith together fell, 
And they did use us very sharp and snell. 
Bound us all night, and wrought us hard all day, 
And for our pains but little sust'nance gae. 
The maiden of the house saw our mishap, 
And out of sight gae 's mony a bit and drap ; 
And shortly to the lad sic liking took, 
That she but him nae saught nor ease coud brook. 
Nae ither boot she had, but tell her care 
Sprang frae the lad that had the yellow hair ; 
And on the night engaged to let us gae, 
Sae be the lad her for his ain wad hae, 1 
And tak her hame, syne join afore the priest : 
All this he promis'd, but by way of jest. 
Sae on a night, as we did all agree, 
She opes our prison-door, and sets us free. 



The Fortunate Shepherdess. 243 

Aff all together we three linking came, 

But her to drap, the lad contrives a sham, 

And sends her back for something he forgot : 

Sae we gaes on, and thought she 'd slip the knot ; 

But, by your favour, she 's no very blate, 

She follows on, and with my lassie met, 

That at some gentle house had shelter ta'en ; 

I reed your honour does this better ken. 

Sae finding she for Flaviana speer'd, 

They made their pye, and aff together steer' d, 

And just this very day arrived here ; 

And this, an't like your honour, maks the steer. 

The lass see yonder, her with the brown hair, 

Bydby, they call her, bargains tough and sair, 

That Lindy there sud by his promise bide, 

Gae face the priest, and own her for his bride ; 

But he for this again is not so clear, 

He thinks 'tis buying of the favour dear ; 

And mair attour, his mind this mony a day, 

Gatelins to Nory there, my dother, lay. 

But for sic thoughts, as far as I can see, 

'Twill be their wisdom now to let them be. 

'Tis true indeed, when siccan thoughts began, 

And all our things in their auld channel ran, 

It might have done ; but as we 're stated now, 

Our littleanes may tak ither trades than woo. 

Indeed we Ve seen the world leave wealthy fouks, 

But they that marry, when they 've nought, are 

gouks. 
I think sae too, replied the cunning Squire, 



244 Helenore; or, 



Sic all their days stand likely to be bare. 
Your honour 's hitten the nail upon the head, 
Fouk to sit down with something ay wad need ; 
And now your honour's heard what maks the thrang. 
Indeed, quo he, I think that Lindy 's wrang, 
As far as I can gather frae your tale : 
But I sud be content to hear himsell, 
And Bydby too ; gin they '11 refer to me, 
I '11 do my best to mak their odds agree. 

Syne they were call'd. Says Bydby, I J m content. 
And to your honour's vote gie my consent. 
For sic I think 's the plainness of my case, 
That nane to gie T t against me can hae face. 
Well, bonny lass, he says, that e'en may be, 
But yet what Lindy says o't we maun see. 
Well, Lindy man, tell gin the bargain was 
By latting of you gae to tak the lass % 
Quo he, Ise warrant sickan words hae been, 
An't like your honour, her and me between. 
To lat you gae, gin she speer'd what '11 ye gie me, 
I 've ablins said, that I sail tak you wi' me ; 
Coud that be ground sae fast a grip to had, 
Or gie a lass a title till a lad 1 
I wonder that she thinks na burning shame, 
On sic an errand sae to come frae hamei 
For we poor fouks like at some pains to be, 
To court our lasses their consent to gie ; 
And think them light that hastily consent, 
Afore some time and pains on them be spent : 



The Fortunate Shepherdess. 245 

But to seek us afore their pulse we try, 

We count them scrimp of shame and modesty. 

Well, Lindy, that sometimes the case may be, 

And sometimes no, as ye right now shall see ; 

Nae doubt we wish, when we our liking set 

Upon a lass, with as gueed to be met ; 

Now, should we blame a lass, that 's just as free 

To look about her, and to like, as we ?* 

A lass may be as modest that likes you, 

As ony ane your fancy likes to woo ; 

And all the fault, and sure it is the least, 

Is letting out the coal that burns her breast \ 

Ye ken yersell the pain of hadding in, 

And should we in the woman count it sin 1 

But there is ae thing, that we maun allow, 

The lass likes best, that forc'd hersell to woo ; 

Whan they are, may be, whom we court of choice, 

Nae hauf so honest, and a deal mair nice. 

Sae gie nae sentence rashly till ye ken, 

Sic I 've seen blyth to eat their words again ; 

And sic, I reed, will be the case with you, 

Sae dinna blame sae sair poor Bydby now. 

Well mat your honour thram for that, quo she, 
For as ye 've said, the case is just with me : 
That lad I liked aboon ony ane, 
And like him yet, for all that 's come and gane. 
And boot to tell, for fear I lost the hint, 

* [Or can she help sic likings up to grow, 

Mair than we can the seed that anes we sow ?] — 1st Ed. 



246 He leu ore; or, 



Sae that I on him hae not steal'd a dint. 
Had I come after, like a knotless thread, 
It might be said, that I was light indeed. 
But here I put it till him, gin that he 
To tak me didna promise hailumlie, 
Ere we took gate, and he kens best himsel, 
To leave poor me, upon what shifts he fell. 
Without my knowledge he had left his coat, 
Then says to me, that he had it forgot, 
And for the love to him I ever had, 
He me again to run about it pray'd. 
And now what was 't for him I wouldna do ? 
And how I 'm treated, Ise be judg'd by you. 
Sae with sic guiding I am left my lane, 
And mony a weary foot sinsyne have gane. 
Borne to the yerd with that unhappy coat, 
That he sae slily said he had forgot. 
And now he thinks to put me aff with hire, 
That gate to leave me sticking in the mire ; 
But he 's mista'en to think to guide me sae, 
For he 's the only hire that I will hae. . 

And well, I think, yeVe won him, said the Squire, 
For ye hae plaid your part, and something mair. 
And now I think that Lindy should play his, 
And mak amends to you for sic amiss. ' 
What say ye, man 1 think ye nae burning shame, 
To gie a lass sic reason you to blame 1 
Can ye expect to thram or fortherds gang, 
That hae been guilty of sae great a wrang ? 



The Fortunate Shepherdess. 2Arf 

Fause and man-sworn will be the names ye '11 get, 

Sae think in time while ye can mend it yet ; 

For gin ye let it to a hearing come, 

Ye '11 find ye 've knit your web to a wrang thrum : 

Force will compel you to comply at last ; 

Sae look about you, ere the hint be past. 

Quo he, Indeed this were a sareless feast, 
To tak in earnest what ane speaks in jest, 
But maistly where we hae our life to lead. 
Then, ere ye speak, ye should tak better heed, 
Replies the Squire, but now the hint is past ; 
Ere it yeed by, ye should have gript it fast. 
Do ye nae think that ye with favours met, 
Whan ye by Bydby was at freedoom set 1 
And mind, that love, which now she claims as due, 
Was what inclin'd her first to pity you ; 
To mend your meal, and syne to set you free : 
Sae love should also now your motive be ; 
For you she did mair than coud all your kin, 
Sae to draw back you must na now begin. 
For weakness we the women use to shame, 
But on oursells ye 're like to turn the blame ; 
Do justice, man, and bring nae sic a stain 
On what has been the constant brag of men ; 
Mind what this lass has undergane for you, 
Since ye did her so treach'rously for-how. 
How she is catch' d for you frae wig to wa', 
And nae forespeakers has her cause to ca' : 
Has run the risk of all her friends' down-look, 



248 Helenore; or, 



Whan for your sake this standing loup she took ; 

And she herself a strapping lass to boot : 

I fairly how ye can hae face to do 't. 

A lass, what I can see, that well may sair 

The best mail-payer's son that e'er buir hair ; 

Besides, I find she 's mettle to the teeth, 

And is nae like to be put aff sae eeth. 

Gin at the lass ye sae repine and grumble, 

Her friends may come and raise you with a rumble. 

By what I hear, their heavy hand ye ken, 

Nor need ye green to waken them again. 

Then Bydby glibly to the Squire reply'd, 
That is as true a tale as e'er ye said ; 
Gin they come here, as come they will, I 'm sure, 
For twenty pounds I wadna stand their stour. 
'Tis true, I winna say, but I '11 get blame, 
Sae like a knotless thread to come frae hame ; 
But when they see how I am guided here, 
They winna stand to reckon lang, I fear : 
For though I say \ mysell, they 're nae to kame 
Against the hair, a-fieldward or at hame. 

As for this lass, that was your joe before, 
I reed she thinks ye hae gaen o'er the score, 
Proceeds the Squire, and that whatever how 
Ye may pretend, she sees ye 're nae to trow. 
And, though for you sic kindness yet she had, 
As she wad you afore anither wed, 
How coud she think that grace or thrift coud be 



The Fortunate Shepherdess. 249 

With ane she now does sae man-sworn see % 
Fouk ay had best begin with dealing fair, 
Altho' they should forgather ne'er so bair. 
For Nory's sake this sideling hint he gae, 
To brak her piece and piece her Lindy frae ; 
Andgain'd his point; for she look'd wondrous dram, 
And thought his shifting Bydby but a sham. 
This pleas'd the Squire, and made him think that he 
At least frae Lindy wad keep Nory free. 
And for himsell to mak the plainer road, 
Betweesh them sae by casting of a clod. 
Then Lindy says, Sir, this is unco hard, 
This gate we hae nae chance against a kaird. 
Gin she but say, She likes ane, that 's enough. 
And we, as lang 's they '11 ca', maun had the plough. 
But, says the Squire, gin ye wad tell a tale 
That wad bear weight, be sure to tell it hail ; 
Attour that Bydby tauld she liked you, 
She yet says mair, and that 's, that ye did vow. 
If with a kaird, as her, the case were so, 
And she insist to have you, wherefore no % 
That back door is o'er strait to let you out, 
Sae seek na mair for shifts to look about : 
For, from what I can either see or hear 
About your case, ye 're Bydby's well-won gear ; 
Sae pay your debt, and mak yae mair about it, 
Hail claith looks ay far better than the clouted. 

All this claw'd Bydby's back, and made her fain, 
As by her blythsome looks you well might ken. 

2 H 



250 Helenore; or y 



The Squire ken'd well, and unto Lindy says, 

Sic cheery looks a heart hauf-dead might raise. 

Now Nory all the while was playing prim, 

As ony lamb as modest, and as mim ; 

And ne'er a look with Lindy did let fa', 

But chew'd her cud on what she heard and saw. 

Now Lindy's heart is haflins in a swidder. 
The wild Sevitians put him in sic dridder ; 
And he 'bout Nory now coud see nae lythe, 
And Bydby only on him looked blythe. 

Then said the Squire, I wiss we had the priest, 
I 'm thinking Lindy 's all this time in jest : 
We should dunt out the boddom o't ere lang, 
Nor Lindy mair be chargeable with wrang. 

Quo' Lindy, Sir, sic knots are easy casten, 
But I 'm but that gate half resolved to fasten. 
Well, half is something, after comes the hail ; 
See, Ralph and Colin, what ye can prevail ; 
Tak lad and lass, and speak among yoursells, 
And when ye 've done, come back again and tell 's. 
Sae aff they gang, and down together sit. 
Yon laird, says Colin, has a deal of wit : 
The gentle sort ken meikle mair than we, 
Sae, we should tak the counsel that they gie. 
Sae, Lindy, put an end to all this strife, 
And tak kind Bydby heie to be your wife. 
'Tis hard to ken, where blessings for 't may light, 



The Fortunate Shepherdess. 251 

Tho' at the time they may be out of sight, 

'T may be a means to get our gueeds again, 

At least, I 'm sure, to slight her wad be nane. 

By that we 're certain to get sturt and skaith, 

But by the other may get free of baith. 

This Squire, may be, may with their master deal ; 

Great fouks with ither eas'ly can prevail. 

Quo Ralph, Troth, Colin, I think ye are right, 
It winna do at all this lass to slight. 
And truly, Lindy, I maun this allow, 
The lass is feer for feer, for hide and hue. 
And as we 're circumstanc'd, I hald it fit, 
As lang 's the iron 's het, ye sharply hit ; 
For fear ye lose the heat afore ye wit. 
Gin anes they come, and things nae at a close, 
Better your feet, man, baith were in ae hose ; 
Did all the mischief light on you your-lane, 
It were less skaith, 'twere but the loss of ane ; 
But gin they anes brak loose, they winna spare, 
Sakeless nor guilty, man, wife, chiel, nor chare. 
Come, man, says Colin, what needs all this din ? 
The lass, but mair, may sair your chief of kin. 
Begin the wark, and gie 'r a kindly kiss, 
There 's naething but amends to heal amiss. 
Indeed, quo he, that 's what I weel can spare, 
I 'se gie her ane, tho' she sud get nae mair. 

At this poor Bydby's heart came till her mou', 
She met my lad half-gates, and mair, I trow. 



252 Helenore; or, 



And gafd her lips on his gie sic a smack, 
That well out-by ye would have heard the crack ; 
And then with sic a blythsome blink she took it, 
That therewith Lindy's mair than haflings hooked. 
Upon the lass his heart 'gan sae to warm, 
That ane wad think the kiss had been a charm. 
Gin he look'd blyth, the lassie looked mair, 
For shame was past the shedding of her hair. 
Ye coud na tell, ; cept ye had found 't yoursell, 
How Bydby's heart did at the kindness knell. 
To him she says, Well-fell me, Lindy, now, 
That e'er I got a tasting of your mou' : 
Nae henny-bike, that I did ever pree, 
Did taste so sweet and smervy unto me. 
The day is now my ain. Let 's gae and tell 
Yon gentle Squire, that he 's content himsell. 
Well mat he be, and well mat ye be a', 
That 's helped my dear Lindy's heart to fa'. 
For want, my Lindy, hae ye now nae fear, 
Tho' ye be herry'd, I hae fouth of gear ; 
And mair attour, mysell sail bear the blame, 
Gin all your gueeds come not yet dancing name. 
Sae wisely thus did she the gully guide, 
That Lindy fand he had scarce room to slide. 
In this gueed mood they all came in a-breast, 
And Bydby looks as gin she 'd found a nest. 
The Squire could soon the alteration spy, 
Whan they came all sae cheerfully in-by ; 
And says, I see ye 're all accorded now, 
What gueed advice may do, ye winna trow, 



The Fortunate Shepherdess. 253 

And, tho' poor Lindy look'd but hauf and hauf, 
Yet Bydby answer'd with a blythsome gauff, 
Well-fell me now, the day is all my ain, 
There is no pleasure gotten without pain ! 

Then says the Squire, My friends, now hald you 
merry, 
Wese hae a priest to end this dibberderry ; 
Kiss on and daut, and use your freedom now, 
Nane now dare say, 'tis ill done that ye do. 
With Colin I maun hae a quiet crack, 
And ye sail see a sport when I come back. 
Then taks his Nory by the milk-white hand, 
That all the while did changing colours stand. 
Then bids he Colin bring his wife alang : 
Syne all sit down a wee bit frae the thrang. 
When they are set, he unto Colin says, 
I Ve not yet tauld my errand to thir braes ; 
Yon threap, I think, is feckly at a close, 
But I hae something better to propose : 
Poor Nory here is like to want her jo, 
And tooth and nail I Ve wrought to have it so. 
That she should want, I think great pity were, 
And she sae ripe, sae cherry-cheek'd and fair ; 
That she has mist this heat, I am not wae. 
Says Colin, She may want this year and day ; 
'Twill tak this seven year, I fear, and mae, 
Scrap where we like, ere she be fit to gae. 

Then says the Squire, Gin that be all your fear, 



254 Helenore; or y 



Awell, an't like your honour, Colin says, 
Gin that 's the gate, we needna mak great phrase. 
The credit 's ours, and we may bless the day 
That ever keest her in your honour's way. 
But ye '11 hae of her but a silly prize, 
And soon belike may her and hers despise. 
A witless littleane, bred to herd the ewes, 
Or, when they 're full, to pull a birn of cows. 
That or sic like 's the maist that she can do, 
And sae, I reed, she '11 not be fit for you ; 



She sanna want a man for want of gear ; 
A thousand pounds a year, well burden-free, 
I mak her sure of, gin she '11 gang with me ; 
And with the word a kindly smack her gae, 
Till Nory blush' d, and wist na what to say. 
Awa, says Colin, that will never do ; 
A country littleane for the like of you ! 
It is not feer for feer, sae dinna joke, 
Ye '11 get your equal, and she '11 get her luck. 
Says Squire, For joking gin I had been set, 
I coud have pleased mysell anither gate, 
And never speer'd your leave, whan her I fand 
In the wide forest, full at my command ; 
But let her tell gin ony wrang I gae. 
Indeed, quo' she, Sir, that I dare not say. 
Sae, Colin, I 'm in earnest, though that I 
Could nill ye will ye carry aff my prey, 
I fand so free \ yet 'tis my choice to speer 
Yours and your wife's good will for Nory here. 



The Fortunate Shepherdess. 255 

But, come of her what likes, I 'm twice content, 
That Lindy 's to his bargain gien consent. 
For that may help perhaps to quench the ire 
That glows 'mang the Sevitians like a fire ; 
For up they '11 be upon a wondrous steer, 
And gueed 's the hap we hae your honour here : 
I Gin ye '11 but bide among 's a day or twa, 
To help 's a hitch afore ye gang awa', 
'Twould calm them sair, sic partakers to see, 
Among sae poor and feckless fouk as we. 
All that I grant, reply'd the gallant Squire, 
And Ise be glad, what help I can to share. 
But mak me sure my Nory is my ain, 
And ye nor I, sail hae nae farther pain. 
Out, out, quo' he, gin ye be baith content 
To gang together, yese hae my consent. 
And well I wat, quo Jean, and yese hae mine, 
And my best benisons the same to line. 
And tho' I say 't, she 's just as gueed a child, 
Wise, and kind-hearted, cheerful, meek, and mild, 
As ony she that ever yeed on bane, 
Gentle or simple, exception mak I nane. 
'Tis true, I grant, she 's nae a maik for you, 
Though she be well enough for hide and hue. 
But maks na, 'tis all ane since ye 're content, 
I hope yese never of your choice repent : 
Although her father there, fool, senseless man, 
Says that the lassie has nae skill nor can ; 
He kens nae better, and is sair mista'en ; 
But nae langsyne she made a keek her lane, 



256 Helenore; or, 



And never got a lesson but bare ane. 

She '11 shape to ony cast your honour likes ; 

Conceited fouks are ready to loup dykes. 

Awell, goodwife, that 's true, I 'm of your mind, 

I could hae gotten enew of my ain kind, 

And courting me as hard as they could do, 

Tho' Lindy scares at lasses when they woo ; 

But on my Nory here my fancy 's set ; 

She 's get the fortune that they wish'd to get. 

Now, Nory, tell me, Nory, will ye hae 
A swinging laird, and lat the shepherd gae % 
Yese be as happy as the day is lang, 
And there about us two sail be a sang, 
That sail be heard as far as bonny Jean, 
That erst was all the burden of the glen. 

Since they're content to whom I do belang, 
She blushing says, that I with you should gang, 
To say you nay, I think I should be wrang : 
For great 's the kindness that ye kyth'd on me, 
Whan me ye did in the wild forest see. 
And kind the lady was of Bonny-ha', 
Frae whom I came o'er racklessly awa' ; 
But fainness to be hame, that brunt my breast, 
Made me to take the ettle whan it keest* 

* [But yet I fear I '11 stand you little stead, 
Either to wash your sark, or male your bed ; 
Or sick an warks as to a woman lie, 
An' yours, I fear, wad need a cast forby.] — 1st Ed. 



The Fortunate Shepherdess. 257 

If ye 're content, 'tis just enough to me, 
Were ye anes hame, your life shall easy be, 
The Squire replied, and twin'd his willing arms 
About her waist, and kiss'd her bonny charms. 
Of your consent, he says, I 'm mair nor fain, 
And vokie that I can ca' you my ain. 
Your bonny cheeks that first I sleeping saw, 
Just as ye lay, quite aff my feet me staw ; 
Frae then till now I brook'd nae peace nor rest, 
Sae stack your sweet resemblance in my breast. 
To eat your meat, and that 's be of the best,* 
And wear your claiths frae head to foot well drest, 
Thro' bonny yards to walk, and apples pu ? , 
Or henny pears to melt within your mou' ; 
Or on the camowyne to lean you down, 
With roses red and white all busked round, 
Sail be the height of what ye '11 hae to do, 
And nane to quarrel or find fault with you. 
My cousin Betty, whom ye ken and saw. 
And left full dowie doun at Bonny-ha', 
When you came aff, sail your companion be, 
And, like twa sisters, ye will sort and gree. 
And further, lest my Nory should think lang, 
Kind Colin there and Jean with us shall gang, 
Indeed, quo Colin, syn my lassie's gaing, 
And on her feet sae happily has fa'en, 

* [Hae ye nae dread 'bout washing o' my sark, 
Or making of my bed, or sicklike wark ; 
At hame afore you, ye '11 find fouks anew, 
Ready to keep that burden aff o' you.] — \st Ed. 

2 I 



258 Helenore; or, 



I 'm e'en content it be as ye wad hae 't, 
Your honour winna miss our bit and baid. 

Well, honest Colin, there 's my hand to yours, 
There 's be nae odds at hame 'bout yours and ours : 
At hack and manger Jean and ye sail live, 
Of what ye like, with power to take or give ; 
But, that we lose no time, we '11 call the priest, 
And see what can be gotten for a feast ; 
For I 've brought drink enough, and of the best, 
Of gryte or sma', that well may please your taste. 

Quo Colin, I hae yet upon the town, 
A quoy, just gaing three, a berry brown ; 
A tydy beast, and glittering like the slae, 
That by gueed hap escap'd the greedy fae. 
Well will I think it wair'd, at sic a tyde, 
Now when my lassie is your honour's bride : 
She 's get the mell, and that sail be right now, 
As well a quoy, as tho' she were a cow. 

Fair fa' you, Colin, ye speak like yoursell, 
She's be a well paid quoy, gin I hald heal, 
Says the blyth Squire; meantime we'll take a 

glass, 
And drink a health to my dear shepherdess, 
Untill the priest be come to gie 's the grace, 
And syne wese birle it bauld with cherful face. 
Call in-by Lindy and his Bydby here, 
That they may get a share of our gueed cheer. 



The Fortunate Shepherdess. 259 

But hear ye first, my Nory maun be drest, 

And that, I 'sure you, maun be of the best. 

Says Colin, Heary, haste ye and rin o'er, 

Your bridal sark, I ken, is to the fore : 

It was na on, I wat, this seven year, 

And well I wat, it anes was clean and clear : 

Put that upon her, and what mair ye hae, 

Ye canna make her braw eneugh the day. 

Quo Jean, I sail do that intill a stound, 

And hail and feer beside 's my wedding goun : 

All sail gang on, the lassie '11 take it now, 

Gueed stuff it is, and looks as it were new. 

Attour I hae a ribbon twa ell lang, 

As broad 's my loof, and nae a thrum o 't wrang ; 

Gin it hae mony marrows I 'm beguil'd, 

'Twas never out of fauld syn she was swayl'd : 

All this I hae, and she sail get it a' ; 

Were they anes on, she '11 e'en be bridal-braw. 

The Squire replies, Ye 've been a noble guide, 
But these are out of fashion for my bride. 
They'll fit you best, put ye them on yoursell, 
Ye well deserve for thrift to bear the bell : 
My Nory sanna want. Then gae a cry, 
Whereat twa well-drest lasses came in-by ; 
To them he says, Ye 5 11 take this angel sweet, 
And dress with havins for your mistress meet, 
My love, my bride, and spare nae pains nor 

care : 
For chap and choice of suits ye hae them there ; 



260 Helenore; or, 



And as ye do 't, mind ye your mistress dress, 
Nor than to such let your regard be less. 

The maids obey, and Nory's taken in, 
And of her country claiths stript to the skin.* 
But, oh, the bonny things that they had there, 
Of gowns and cambricks, costly, fine, and rare ! 
I canna name the half ; but of them they 
Buskt up a bonny Nory there that day, 
So white, so neat, that when she came again, 
Her mother Jean did haflins her misken. 

Now by the time that Nory comes in-by, 
Like Venus from a scamper through the sky, 
Fleeing with silks, and ruddy like the morn, 
That casts a glow upon the yellow corn, 
Lindy and Bydby frae their quiet crack, 
Right well content and blythsome-like came back. 

The Squire observes them, and says, Come awa', 
I 'm fain to see you look sae, but a ga' ; 
Your scruples, Lindy, by your looks I find, 
Are at a close, and answer'd to your mind. 
Quo Lindy, Sir, indeed I canna say, 
But I and Bydby may together gae ; 
But there is ae thing I 'd hae dunted out, 

* [Syne with sweet washes wrought from tap to tae, 
The halesome smell spread out thro' a' the brae, 
Then with clean servits dry'd her up an' doun, 
And then to dress her made them quickly boun'.l — 1st Ed. 



The Fortunate Shepherdess. 261 



And I nae mair sail say this threap about, 
And that 's, that Nory own afore you a', 
That on my side the bargain didna fa' ; 
For, for my coat, I wadna wish 't were said, 
That I of jamphing maidens made a trade, 
Well, Lindy, I believe, replied the Squire, 
Nory'll be frank to do you justice there : 
For what between you twa has ever been, 
Nane to the ither will cast up, I ween. 
But quite to mak you easy, let her tell 
Afore this fouk, what she thinks o 't hersell.* 

Then Nory says, 'Tis needless to come o'er, 
'Twixt you and me, what happen' d has before ; 
That's past and gane, and things, ye see, have ta'en 
Another cast, and maun be let alane. 
But all before here standing I avow, 
That naething wrang I hae to say to you : 
And as a token that I hae nae grudge, 
Where'er I win, yese welcome be to lodge, 
And fare as I do ; and, what I can spare, 
Ise ever mak you welcome to a share. 
Now, Lindy, says the Squire, you're easy now, 
And Nory naething says but gueed to you, 
And what she here has shapen I shall sew : 
Bring, ilka year, as lang 's ye dow and live, 

* [If anes I saw her, I sud frankly speer, 
By what I see, I think she is na here ; 
Her change o' dress sae put her out o' ken, 
That he misken'd her now wi' open eyn.] — ist Ed. 



262 Helenore; or t 



A lamb, and to your auld acquaintance give ; 
And in your loof yese get as aft doun tauld, 
The worth of all that suck within your fauld. 

And now the priest to join the pairs is come, 
But first is welcom'd with a glass of rum. 
And now the pairs, by choice* together cast, 
In wedlock's bands are linked hard and fast; 
And now the dishes on the damask green 
Are set in rank, with proper space between : 
While honest Jean brings forward in a clap, 
The green-horn cutties rattling in her lap ; 
And frae them wyl'd the sleekest that was there, 
And thum'd it round, and gave it to the Squire ; 
Then round the ring she dealt them ane by ane, 
Clean in her perlin keek and gown alane. 
The priest said grace, and all the thrang fell to, 
And ply'd their cutties at the smervy broo : 
Then on the beef of the new slaughtered quoy 
Baith knives and teeth and thumbs they did employ : 
Sometimes the beer, sometimes the wine went round, 
For what the Squire bade do, was snaply done ; 
While all the green with music sweetly rang, 
And honest Colin knack'd his thumbs and sang : 
When dinner 's o'er, the dancing neist began ; 
And thro' and thro' they lap, they flang; they ran : 
The country dances and the country reels, 
With streeked arms bobb'd round, and nimble heels. 
The Squire ordain'd nae rander to be kept, 
* Chance ? 



The Fortunate Shepherdess. 263 

And roos'd him always best that lightest leapt ; 
Lest Nory, seeing dancing by a rule, 
Should blush, as having never been at school. 
While thus the blythsome mirth gaes round, 

Colin behalding on the green, 
And mair nor pleas'd, turns in a stound, 

And couthily says unto Jean, 
What think ye, 'oman, of this day 1 

May we not think our pains well wair'd, 
And that it is right blythsome play, 

Whan our young Nory's gotten a laird? 
Jean says, I thought aye gueed of her wad come, 
For she was with the foremost up and some. 

Then Colin says, Come, deary, gie 's a sang, 
And let 's be hearty with the merry thrang. 
Awa', she says, fool man,* ye 're growing fu', 
Whaever 's daft to-day, it sets na you. 

As they 're at this, the Squire came dancing by, 
And speers what thoughts their mind did occupy. 
Quo Colin, Sir, an't like your honour, we 
'Bout Nory's happy luck were cracking free. 
And I was bidding Jean e'en gie's a sang, 
That we among the lave may mix our mang. 
But she but jamphs me, telling me I 'm fu', 
And gin 't be sae, Sir, Ise be judged by you. 
I join you, Colin, then the bridegroom says ; 
Come, honest Jean, gie 's Flaviands Braes. 
Quo' Jean, my Steven, Sir, is blunted sair, 



264 Helenore;. or, 



And singing frae me frighted aff with care ; 

But, gin ye '11 tak it, as I now can gie 't, 

Ye 're welcome till 't, and my sweet blessing wi't. 

To the Tune of " The Lass ofPatiis Mill:' 

Of all the lads that be 

On Flaviana's Braes, 
My Colin bears the gree, 

And that a thousand ways. 
Best on the pipe he plays, 

Is merry, blyth, and gay, 
And Jeanie fair, he says, 

Has stown my heart away. 

Had I ten thousand pounds, 

I'd all to Jeanie gie ; 
And thole a thousand wounds, 

To keep my Jeanie free ; 
For Jeanie is to me, 

Of all the maidens fair, 
My jo, and aye sail be, 

With her I '11 only pair. 

Of roses I will weave 

To her a flow'ry crown : 
All other cares I '11 leave, 

And busk her haffets round ; 
I '11 buy her a new gown, 

With strips of red and blue, 
And never mair look brown, 

For Jean will aye be new. 



My Jeanie made reply, 
Syn ye hae chosen me, 

Then all my wits I '11 try 
A loving wife to be. 



The Fortunate Shepherdess. 265 

If I my Colin see, 
I '11 lang for nae thing mair, 

With him I do agree, 

In weal and woe to share. 

Now, Sir, you hae our FlaviancCs Braes, 
And well, ye see, our gossip did we praise : 
But we 're forfairn, and sair alter'd now; 
Sic youngsome sangs are sareless frae my mou'. 
Hale be your heart, the merry Squire replies, 
Nae to the worse is alter'd yet the guise. 
And hale, too, Colin, be your heart : but you, 
This blythsome sang we all had wanted now. 
Then Colin said, The carline made it nice, 
But well I kent she could it tightly dice ; 
Afttimes, unbid, she lilted it to me, 
And o'er the fire has blinked in my eye. 

To fill a glass the cheerful Squire commands, 
And with the honest seelfu' pair shook hands, 
Then drank their health, and gar'd it gae about, 
And, oh, the drink was nappy, brown, and stout ! 

As thus the dancing and the mirth gaes on, 
Ane looks about, and says, O sirs ! what 's yon % 
A heap of men advancing at full dreel, 
And, oh, the foremost looks a fearsome chiel ! 
All look about, and Lindy says, Ho, ho ! 
Yon 's the Sevitians, what shall we do now 1 
And yon 's black Tam, that gaes alane afore : 
There '11 be among us now a dowie hour. 



266 Helenore; or, 



Then Colin says, Alas ! the tale 's o'er true, 
Our mirth will all be turn'd to mourning now : 
'Tis now come to our hand what Bydby tauld, 
We '11 naething be afore yon bangsters bauld. 
The Squire observes their fright, says, Never fear, 
We '11 meet them with as sharp and trusty gear : 
Come, friends, with courage let us meet the crew, 
And that there 's men in Flaviana shew. 
Meanwhile he says to stalwart Aiken-hill, 
Till we be ready, you step forward will : 
With your habiliments and armour sheen, 
And ask yon highland Kettrin what they mean : 
Charge them to stop, nor move a foot-braid more, 
Or they shall at their peril cross the score. 
The knight obeys, with glancing sword in hand, 
With stately step and brow made for command. 
On his left arm, he bore his massy targe, 
Well boss'd with steel, and out of measure large. 
When he was full within their hearing got, 
With dreadful voice, from aff a rising mote, 
He call'd to stop ; and calling struck the ground, 
Till all the yird return'd a trembling sound. 
The men, tho' bauld, yet at the daring sight, 
And manly cry, were some put in a fright : 
And stopt a wee, then up more softly came, 
Then ask'd the knight, what was the^r country's 

name. 
Sevitia, they replied. What ask ye here, 
In sic a band, and in sic warlike gear % 
Our sister, we suppose, is stolen away. 



The Fortunate Shepherdess. 267 

And by the Flavianians made a prey : 
Her at all hazards we intend to claim, 
And on the havers fix the riefing blame. 

And now the Squire is ready to advance, 
And in his hand holds up a shining lance, 
And bids the stoutest of the gather'd thrang 
Gird on their bulyiement and come alang. 
Nory at this is suddenly aghast, 
With baith her hands unto her Squire grips fast ; 
Crying, Dear sir, you shall not, must not go, 
Yon Kettrins' bows will surely shoot you thro'. 
For any thing with you I '11 never part, 
For fear already 's like to brak my heart. 
Fear not, dear Nory, softly said the Squire, 
The sight of us will mak them fast retire. 
Retire or no, poor Nory made reply, 
If you go any further, so will I. 
Then come alang, since with me ye '11 abide, 
We '11 look the better that we hae our bride : 
You want not darts that can baith wound and kill, 
You know you shot me sleeping on the hill : 
Your glancing eyn will make their heads to reel, 
And melt their arrows, tho' of forged steel. 
So hand in hand the new knit pair set out, 
Attended by a brave and gallant rout. 
The Squire comes up, and says to Aiken-hill, 
Have these intruders then obey'd your will 1 
So far, he says, that they have stopt their course, 
But say, that here is of their march the source. 



268 Helenore; or, 

The Squire advances, and inquires the cause, 
They thus adventure to break through the laws, 
By breaking in upon their neighbour's bounds, 
Like baited bears, or like blood-thirsty hounds : 
Did they imagine Flaviana's braes 
Had no protectors from their bloody faes ? 
He 'd let them see, they widely were mista'en, 
And should be met with as hard match again. 
Tho' they of late unquarrell'd wan awa', 
Whan they these honest people's gueeds did ca', 
That they should find the guise was alter'd now, 
And reason have this reckless race to rue. 

Then the Sevitians made this bold reply : 
We never thought it wrang to ca' a prey ; 
Our auld forebears practis'd it all their days, 
And ne'er the worse for that did set their claise : 
But never heard that e'er they steal' d a cow ; 
Sic dirty things they wad hae scorn'd to do. 
But tooming faulds, or scouring of a glen, 
Was ever deem'd the deed of protty men ; 
So we for that need not cast down our brow, 
It is a thing that we may well avow. 

The Squire consider'd 'twas na best to fight 
With men 'bout things that they accounted right ; 
But tries with reason to reduce their wills, 
And shaw the wrang of what they j udg'd not ills, 
And thus began : Your auld forebears, you say, 
Taught you to toom a fauld, and drive a prey ; 



The Fortunate Shepherdess. 269 

They thought it was a doughty deed, and ye 
To do the like right well entitled be ; 
But tell me this, how would you like the case. 
If others on yoursells should turn the chase ? 
Say they, We know no reason but they might, 
The strongest side has ay the strongest right ; 
If we our side unable are to guard, 
Let them the booty have for their reward. 
The Squire replied, My lads ye judge amiss, 
For of the weak the law protector is. 
It may be, said the Kettrin, but, if true, 
We have like reason to complain of you : 
Ye 've stown a lass and frae us forc'd awa', 
And, ere we want her, we sail pluck a craw. 
Oh, then, replied the Squire, is that the case 1 
Come forward, and ye soon shall hae redress. 
The lass is safe and sound, and marry'd leal, 
And free to tell, that her we did not steal. 
Stark love and kindness made her to come here, 
When we to have her were not quite so clear ; 
But we 've inclin'd the lad that wan her heart, 
To gie himsell, to heal her langing smart. 

If that 's the case, say they, our mind 's at rest, 
We wiss they o't may hae a merry feast. 
A merry feast they hae, he says, and ye 
Come forward, and the truth thereof shall see. 

And now the fead is soften'd, and alang 
They march, and mix themsells among the thrang 



270 Helenore; or, 



The face .of things is alter d in a snap, 

And as they came, they sang, they danc'd, they lap. 

Colin and Lindy now, wha fear'd the worst, 

This change observing, come among the first ; 

With Bydby halding Lindy by the hand, 

To welcome the Sevitians to their land. 

And merry was their meeting on the green, 

And, oh, the shaking hands that there was seen ! 

All forward now in merry mood they went, 

And all the day in mirth and ranting spent. 

Well were they pleas'd with Lindy, when they saw 

With him the yoke how Bydby loo'd to draw. 

When they had eat and drank and danc'd their fill, 

Then says the Squire, My lads, it is my will, 

As by this marriage ye are linked here, 

That ye restore this honest people's gear, 

And live like friends, and each stand by the other, 

As close as ye wad do to any brother. 

Give o'er your herships, and improve your lands, 

Nor mair a-stroliing go wi' riefing bands : 

Sae sail ye hence be had in good esteem, 

And your lost reputation much redeem. 

Then the Sevitians gave this mild reply : 
Your just request we canna well deny. 
Since Lindy has with Bydby jom'd his hand, 
Theyse hae their gear again at your command ; 
Chap out as mony yonkers frae the glen, 
As ilka horn and hoof of yours may ken ; 
And we sail them a ready taiken gie, 



The Fortunate Shepherdess. 27 1 

That sail frae us let all their gueeds gae free. 
Accordingly the lads were wil'd and sent, 
The taiken shown, that, but a host, was kent ; 
And all the beasts in course of time came hame, 
And ilka cow was welcom'd by her dame. 
Then all the afternoon they danc'd and drank, 
And were with ither hearty, free, and frank : 
At night the wedded pairs, on beds of hay, 
Did ratify the business of the day. 

Now, when the morn was gilt with Phoebus' 
beamSj 
And reek in streaming towr's frae lumb-heads learns, 
The Squire, and all his sightly friends are seen, 
In good array upon the dewy green ; 
And straight with the Sevitians seal'd a band, 
In after times unalterably to stand : 
To wit, " That they with Flaviana's Braes, 
Should ever mair hae common friends and faes." 
Attour the Squire to Lindy does bequeath, 
To brook all Colin's gear to his last breath ; 
And to his children after him. As now 
Colin with these wad hae no more to do, 
As he and Jean were with the Squire to gang 
For all their lifetime, be it ne'er so lang. 
To the Sevitians here we bid adieu, 
And leave them feasting wi' their allies new. 

And now the Squire his hamewith course intends, 
And aff a message to auld mammy sends. 



272 Heleiiore; or, 

Anither forward unto Bonny-Ha, 

To tell that there things be redd up and braw. 

Upon a milk-white steed is Nory set, 

By liv'ry men attended well in state ; 

Sae girt she was in strong and gallant graith, 

As she could neither fall nor meet wi' skaith ; 

And then sae braw, that she hersell misknew, 

Sae in the wind her silks and scarlets flew : 

Ane led her reins, with siller knaps full clear, 

On ilka side twa walk'd by her right near. 

The Squire himsell, upon a silver gray, 

Rade close afore her, to direct the way. 

Colin was mounted in a gentle suit, 

With hat and wig, and riding gear compleat : 

And Jean with orange silk is all clad o'er, 

With mantle blue, and siller clasps before. 

Then on they scour, and by the day was high, 

They reach' d the glens, where mammy kept her ky. 

All on the green they light before the sheal, 

And mammy them receives with welcome hail. 

Well, lucky, says he, hae you try'd your hand 
Upon your milk, as I gae you command % 
An't like your honour, quo she, that I hae, 
And in a glent, my child, yese find it sae. 
Gang in and seat you on the sunks all round, 
And yese be sair'd with plenty in a stound. 
Sae down they sat ; and by himsell the Squire, 
To place his Nory took a special care. 
And when they're set, auld lucky eyes them a', 



The Fortunate Shepherdess. 273 



And, sic a rout, says, here I never saw : 
Well may ye all be, and well gae ye hame : 
But I afore you all maun tell a dream, 
I had last night, when I lay here my lane, 
That yet in life I had seen bonny Jean. 
Then says the Squire, Pray, lucky, wha was she, 
With whom in sleep ye might sae busy be % 
A friend of yours, she says, but yet I fear, 
That ye of her could scarcely ever hear. 
Ere ye was born, her fate was past and gane, 
And she amaist forgot by ilka ane ; 
And that sweet face by you, I 'd say, were she, 
Wer't not she now could not so young-like be. 

Tell on your tale, reply'd the Squire, for I 
To hear it out am in anxiety. 

Then said she, Frae this back near thirty year, 
Which is as yesterday to me as clear, 
Frae your ain uncle's gate was nipt awa' 
That bonny bairn, 'twas thought, by Junky Fa, 
That famous gypsy, that steal'd mony ane, 
And of her since was notice never name. 
I at that time her worthy father sair'd, 
And mony a tear the matter cost the laird : 
Great search for her was made baith far and near, 
But tint nor trial of her cud we hear. 
To this auld Colin glegly 'gan to hark, 
Wha with his Jean sat butwards in the mark ; 
And says. Gudewife, I reed your tale is true, 

2 L 



274 Helenore; or, 



And I ne'er kent my wife's descent till now. 
'Tis she had sae been stown by Junky Fa, 
And I can tell you how she wan awa'. 
My father and some neipers spy'd tne rout 
O' gypsies strolling, as they 're early out : 
They dreaded sair, they might ca' aff some prey, 
And gae them chase about the break of day. 
The bonny bairn they in the hurry tint, 
Our fouks came up, and fand her in a glent ; 
'Bout six or seven she looked then to be, 
Her face was smear'd with some dun-colour'd gree. 
They fuish her hame, and an auld man call'd Dick, 
A wealthy herd, that kent the gypsies' trick, 
Of stealing bairns, and smearing of their skin, 
That had nae bairns himsell, first took her in ; 
Wash'd aff the gree, and then her bonny face 
Told, that she must be come of gentle race. 
And Dick thought now that he had found a fiddle, 
And never brak his shins upon the cradle. 
Syne meat he gae, the best he cud command, 
And says, Ye 've now your daddie by the hand : 
How ca' they you, my bairn, gin ye but ken 1 
She answer maks, and says, They ca' me Jean. 
Some ither questions mair he speer'd, but she 
Cud of herself but little quittance gie : 
He only from some hints cou'd eethly learn, 
That, but a doubt, she was some gentle bairn. 
Gin he was fain, far fainer was his wife, 
And 'tweesh them twa she liv'd a happy life : 
A little time made her her chance forget, 



The Fortunate Shepherdess. 275 

Quite pleas'd in being dad and minnie's pet. 
Just as their ain she 's fashen up and ta'en 
For Dick's ae dother now by ilka ane ; 
And blyth was he, that she e'en thought it sae, 
And all his gear at last unto her gae. 

When she and I forgather' d, I mysell 
Ken'd nought of all this strange, but couthy tale. 
Dick and my father's now baith at a rest, 
Dick's wife alane the verity kens best, 
And tauld it me, and syne I speer'd at Jean : 
She said, about it she did little ken. 
Something of stairs and beds ran in her mind, 
Than these at hame of quite another kind : 
Yet all but like a dream, and when at last 
She 's hauf persuaded of her antercast, 
She said, What signifies 't ? we '11 never ken 
Oursells the richer, either but or ben ; 
Upon our side we need na lie and lippen 
To what to us may from our gentry happen. 
And sae thought I, but yet was something vain, 
That sic an aught I now could ca' my ain : 
And vain I may be now, when all that 's past, 
By unko twines, has fallen sae well at last : 
Then says to Jean, Come out afore the gawd, 
And let fouk see gin ye be what ye 're ca'd. 
I sail, she says, and comes ben to the light : 
Auld mammy looks, and says, I'm right, I'm right; 
My dream is read, and this is bonny Jean, 
Her lady mither o'er and o'er again : 



276 Helenore; or. 



In face and feature, and muckle about her eeld, 
When she to ruthless death was forc'd to yield ; 
Bad was your luck, thought we, when ye was stawn ; 
But it wad look, ye on your feet had fa'en : 
When your goodman himself, and also ye 
Look sae like to the thing that ye sud be. 
Then Jean replied, I should be right content, 
For the kind cavel that to me was lent : 
But it 's nae lang since I hae been sae braw, 
What I hae maistly had, hail claise was a'. 
Gueed luck, and mair nor gueed, I now may ca % 
And thankful should I be, gin I could shaw 't. 

Ye 're welcome, mother, sae I call you now, 
Well wair'd, I think, all that I 've gien to you : 
And wad hae thought it due, now when I ken, 
Replies the Squire, that ye are just my ain. 
Then unto mammy says, Do ye not mind, 
That to some travelling lasses ye was kind 1 
That ane of them ye roos'd sae wondrous sair, 
And sonnets made upon her face sae fair : 
Think ye, that ye that bonny face wad ken, 
In case that ye sud chance to see 't again ? 
Her looks, quo' she, sae gar'd my heart-strings beat, 
I reed, 'twas they that me a dreaming set ; 
And I almaist wad swear, that same were she, 
That blinks beside you with her bonny eye : 
Save that she 's brawer far ; but what ken I, 
But she has chang'd her claise since she yeed by ? 
Ye 're right, good-wife, says Nory j chang'd indeed, 



The Fortunate Shepherdess. 277 

Since I yeed by, is baith my mind and weed. 
I 'm in your debt for your gueed curds and ream, 
And ere lang days, I hope to pay you hame ; 
Your dream indeed has made me mair nor fain, 
Now what I am when I begin to ken. 

My benisons upon your bonny face, 
Auld lucky says, I wiss you mickle grace. 
That ye are bonny Jean's I 'm certain now, 
Your eyes, nose, mouth, are just the same, I vow. 
Then says the Squire to lucky, Do ye mind, 
That what to do, ye wish'd, I were inclin'd ; 
That was, to tak' a wife ere I cam' hame 1 
I 've done your will, and ta'en this charming dame ; 
This bonnie lassie that now sits by me, 
And my ain flesh and blood now proves to be. 
Lang may you dream, for I am twice content, 
That ane yet lives the verity that kent ; 
And has sae seasonably letten me ken 
That I hae match'd, and that among my ain. 
But this I '11 say, tho' she had been nae mair, 
But just my ain sweet country lassie there, 
I never would my happy choice repent, 
Tho', as she's what she is, I 'm as content. 
If she her luck may prize, I also may, 
I hope, prize mine unto my dying day. 

Thus has this strange adventure ended right, 
And ev'ry scene in due time come to light. 
Jean, from her lot obscure, is now retrieval, 



278 Helenore; or, 



And upon Nory honour due derived. 

Her comely face that look'd aboon her lot, 

A chance becoming her descent has got. 

All home they went, and led a blythsome life, 

Happy as ever yet were man and wife. 

A blooming offspring frae this marriage sprang, 

That honour'd virtue, and discouraged wrang. 



CONCLUSION. 

Now, reader, lest thou think the time ill spent, 

Thou on the reading of this tale hast lent ; 

Or shouldst upon review be apt to say, 

I 'd thrown my paper, pains, and time away ; 

Be pleas'd to see, couch'd in this harmless tale, 

Some useful lessons try'd in reason's scale. 

As love 's a natural passion of the mind, 

To which all ranks are more or less inclin'd ; 

Care has been taken, while we paint it here, 

That nothing base or vicious should appear, 

But what is chaste and virtuous all the while, 

And only meets thee with a cheery smile ; 

See also the plain past'ral life describ'd, 

Before it had oppressive views imbib'd : 

And judge how sweet and harmless were 1 the days 

When men were acted by such springs as these. 

See also the reverse of this fair plan, 

After oppressive measures first began ; 

And from the havock that this practice brought, 



The Fortunate Shepherdess. 279 

Be taught to hate it even in very thought. 

If any arts thou find'st are here practis'd, 

To gain some ends, unlawfully devis'd, 

Be not offended ; turn thy eyes within, 

And let him first throw stones that wants the sin. 

'Tis not for practice, tho' too much the way, 

That 'tis allow'd a place in our essay : 

But rather to evince, when we pretend 

To gain by slight, that we shall lose our end. 

Nought, in a word, is here at all design'd, 

To misconduct or to debauch the mind ; 

But to amuse it when too earnest bent, 

Or recreate a spirit overspent : 

To help to pass a lonesome winter night, 

Still saving room for graver subjects right. 

No line is for the critic here design'd, 

To find him work, or please his captious mind : 

For me, he all his pains and time shall waste, 

I do not mean at all to please his taste. 

Enough my brains I have already beat, 

And judge it time to sound my loud retreat. 





SONGS, 



THE ROCK AND THE WEE PICKLE TOW. 



PART I. 



^gHERE was an auld wife and a wee pickle 

f\ wM tow ' 

s-ssBsl And she wad gae try the spinning o't ; 

She louted her down, and her rock took a low, 

And that was a bad beginning o't. 

She sat and she grat, and she flet and she flang, 

And she threw and she blew, and she wriggled and 

wrang, 

And she choked and boaked, and cry'd like to 

mang, 

Alas for the dreary spinning o't. 

I 've wanted a sark for these eight years and ten, 
And this was to be the beginning o't ; 

But I vow I shall want it for as lang again, 
Or ever I try the spinning o't. 



The Rock and tJie Wee Pickle Tow. 281 

For never since ever they ca'd me as they ca' me, 
Did sic a mishap or mishanter befa' me ; 
But ye shall hae leave baith to hang me and draw 
me, 
The neist time I try the spinning o't. 

I hae keeped my house for these threescore o' years, 
And aye I kept free o' the spinning o't ; 

But how I was sarked, foul fa' them that speers, 
For it minds me upo' the beginning o't. 

But our women are now-a-days grown a' sae braw, 

That ilk ane maun hae a sark, an' some maun hae 
twa; 

The warld was better, when ne'er ane ava 
Had a rag, but ane at the beginning o't. 

Foul fa' her that ever advised me to spin, 
That had been sae lang a beginning o't ; 

I might well have ended as I did begin, 

Nor have gat sic a skair with the spinning o't. 

But they '11 say, She 's a wise wife that kens her ain 
weird ; 

I thought on a day it should never be speer'd, 

How lout ye the low tak your rock by the beard, 
When ye yeed to try the spinning o't ? 

The spinning, the spinning, it gars my heart sob, 

When I think upon the beginning o't ; 

I thought ere I died to have anes made a wob, 

But still I had weers of the spinning o't. 

2 M 



282 Songs. 



But had I nine dothers, as I hae but three, 
The safest and soundest advice I could gie, 
Is, that they frae spinning wad keep their hands free, 
For fear of a bad beginning o't. 

Yet, in spite o' my counsel, if they will needs run 
The drearysome risk of the spinning o't, 

Let them seek out a lyth in the heat of the sun, 
And there venture on the beginning o't. 

But to do as I did, alas and awow ! 

To busk up a rock at the cheek o' the low, 

Says, that I had but little wit in my pow, 
And as little ado wi' the spinning o't. 

But yet, after a', there is ae thing that grieves 

My heart to think o' the beginning o't ; 
Had I won the length but of ae pair o' sleeves, 

Then there had been word o' the spinning o't, 
This I wad hae washen an' bleach'd like the snaw, 
And on my twa gardies like moggans wad draw, 
And then fouk wad say, that auld Girzy was braw, 
And a' was upon her ain spinning o't. 

But gin I could shog about till a new spring, 

I should yet hae a bout of the spinning o't ; 
A mutchkin o' lintseed I 'd in the yerd fling, 

For a' the wanchancy beginning o't. , 
I '11 gar my ain Tammie gae down to the how, 
And cut me a rock of a widdershins grow, 
Of good rantry-tree for to carry my tow, 
And a spindle o' same for the twining o't. 



The Rock and the Wee Pickle Tow. 283 

For, now, when I mind me, I met Maggy Grim 

That morning, just at the beginning o't ; 
She was never ca'd chancy, but canny an' slim, 

And sae it has fared with my spinning o't. 
But gin my new rock war anes cutted and dry, 
I '11 all Maggy's cann an' her cantrips defy, 
And, but ony sussie, the spinning I '11 try, 
An' ye shall a' hear o' the beginning o't. 



PART II. 

Quo' Tibby, her dother, tak tent fat ye say, 

The never a rag we '11 be seeking o't ; 
Gin ye anes begin, ye '11 tarveal's night an' day, 

Sae 'tis vain ony mair to be speaking o't. 
Since Lammas, I 'm now gain' thirty an' twa, 
And never a dud sark had I yet great or sma', 
And what waur am I ; I 'm as warm an' as braw, 
As thrummy-tail'd Meg, that 's the spinner o't. 

To labour the lint land, and then buy the seed, 

And then to yoke me to the harrowing o't ; 
And syne loll amon't and pick out ilka weed, 

Like swine in a stye at the farrowing o't ; 
Syne powing an' ripling, and steeping, and then 
To gar 's gae and spread it upon the cauld plain, 
And then, after a', may be labour in vain, 

When the wind and the weet gets the fushion o't. 



284 Songs. 

But though it should anter the weather to bide, 

With beetles we 're set to the drubbing o't ; 
And then frae our fingers to gnidge afT the hide, 

With the wearisome wark o' the rubbing o't. 
And syne ilka tait maun be heckled outthrow, 
The lint putten ae gate, anither the tow, 
Syne on on a rock wi't, and it taks a low, — 
The back o' my hand to the spinning o't. 

Quo' Jenny, I think, 'oman, ye 're in the right, 

Set your feet ay a spar to the spinning o't ; 
Let's tak an example by our ain mither's fright, 

That she got, when she try'd the beginning o't. 
But they '11 say, that auld foukare twice bairns indeed, 
And sae she has kyth'd it ; but there is nae need 
To siccan an amshach that we drive our head, 
As lang's we're sae skair'd frae the spinning o't 

Quo' Nanny, the youngest, I 've now heard ye a', 

An' dowie 's your doom of the spinning o't ; 
Gin ye, when the cow flings, the cog cast awa', 

Ye '11 see where ye '11 lick up your winning o't ; 
But I see that, but spinning, I '11 never be braw, 
But gae by the name of a dilp or a daw, 
Sae, lack where ye like, I sail anes shak a fa', 
Afore I be dung wi' the spinning o't. 

For well I can mind me, when black Willie Bell 
Had Tibbie there just at the winning o't ; 

Fat blew up the bargain, she kens well hersel, 
Was the want o' the knack o' the spinning o't. 



The Rock and the Wee Pickle Tow. 285 
1 

And now, poor 'oman, for ought that I ken, 
She never may get sic an offer again, 
But pine awa' bit an' bit, like Jenkin's hen, 
And naething to wyte, but the spinning o't. 



But were it for naething but just this alane, 
I shall yet hae a bout o' the spinning o't ; 
They may cast me for calling me black at the 
bane, 
But nae 'cause I shun the beginning o't. 
But be that as it happens, I care not a strae, 
But nane of the lads shall e'er have it to say, 
When they come to woo, she kens naething avae, 
Nor has ony knack o' the spinning o't. 

In the days they call yore, gin auld fouk had but 
won 

To a surcoat hough-side for the winning o't, 
Of coat raips, well cut to the cast of their bun, 

They never sought mair o' the spinning o't. 
A pair of grey hoggers well clinked benew, 
Of nae ither litt but the hue of the ewe, 
Wi' a pair of rough rullions to scuff thro' the dew, 

Was the fee they sought at the beginning o't. 

But we maun hae linen, and that maun hae we, 
And how get we that but by spinning o't 1 

How can we hae face for to seek a great fee, 
Except we can help at the winning o't ? 



286 Songs. 

_ 

And we maun hae pearlins, and mabbies, and cocks, 
And some ither things that the ladies ca' smocks, 
And how get we that, gin we tak nae our rocks, 
An' rug what we can at the spinning o't 1 

Tis needless for us to mak ony remarks, 

Frae our mother's miscooking the spinning o't : 
She never kent ought o' the good o' the sarks, 

Frae this aback to the beginning o't. 
Twa three ells o' plaiden was a' that was sought, 
By auld warld bodies, and that boot be bought, 
For in ilka town siccan things was na then wrought, 
So little they kent o' the spinning o't. 

[In the first of the world, when Adam and Eve 
Was station'd here at the beginning o't, 

Their very first wark was to sew the fig leaves, 
An' syne gaed to Xxy the spinning o't. 

When Adam he delved, and mother Eve span, 

There was naething like pride and like gentry than ; 

But now there 's eneugh baith in woman an' man, 
Which could not be but the spinning o't. 

With spinning I hae a far happier life, 

Than Mary, the Queen, I '11 warrant you o't ; 
For she seldom lived free o' trouble or strife, 

For she kent nae the art o' the spinning o't. 
'Tis a trade that is honest, and ancient, an' true, 
Whoever can spin, they need never to rue, 
It gains claes to the back, and meat to the mou, 
Sae I '11 never gie o'er the spinning o't. 



To the Begging we will Go. 287 

I've naething to mind but my rock and my reel, 

When I gang to try the spinning o't ; 
Then fouk '11 say that young Nanny spins weel, 

And is chief o' kin frae the beginning o't. 
Sae I '11 hae a man, fatever betide, 
The weather is cauld, an' I canna abide, 
For I 've siller eneugh now to mak me a bride, 
That I hae got by the spinning o't.] — 1st Ed. 



X5eXI><§55 5 ' 



TO THE BEGGING WE WILL GO. 

Of all the trades that ever was, 

The begging is the best ; 
When I am tired with begging 

I will ly down and rest ; 

To the begging we will go, will go, 

will go, 
To the begging we will go. 

And first I '11 have a meal pock 

Of good aum'd leather made, 
To hold at least a firlot, 

And room for beef and bread. 
To the begging, &c. 



288 Songs. 

I '11 next unto the turner, 
And cause him turn a dish 

To hold at least three choppins, 
For less I wad na wish. 

To the begging, &c. 

I '11 then unto the cobbler, 

And cause him sole my shoon, 

An inch thick in the boddam, 
And clouted well aboon. 

To the begging, &c. 

I '11 carry to the tailor 

A web of hoding gray, 
That he may make a cloak of it, 

To hap me night and day. 

To the begging, &c. 

Then I '11 unto some greasy cook, 
And buy frae him a hat, 

That is baith stiff and weather-proof, 
And glittering o'er with fat. 

To the begging, &c. 

Then with my pike-staff in my hand, 
To close my begging stock, 

I '11 go unto some lucky wife 
To hansel my new pock. 

To the begging, &c. 



To the Begging we will Go. 289 

But yet ere I begin my trade, 

I '11 lat my beard grow Strang, 
Nor pare my nails for year and day; 

For beggars use them lang. 

To the begging, &c. 

I '11 put no water on my hands, 

As little on my face ; 
For still the lowner like I am, 

The more my trade I '11 grace. 
To the begging, &c. 

When I the men at work espy, 

I Ti hirple to the house ; 
If nane be in but the goodwife, 

Then I ; 11 crack wondrous crouse. 
To the begging, &c. 

I '11 seek frae her my lodging, 

Though it be far frae night ; 
Then, to let me be trudging, 

She '11 sair me right and tight. 
To the begging, &c. 

At ilka house I '11 play the same, 

Till it be growing mark, 
And the goodman be sitten down, 

And come in frae his wark. 

To the begging, &c. 



290 Songs. 

Then saftly leaning o'er my staff, 

I '11 say, with hat in hand, 
Will the poor man get lodging here'? 

Alas, I cannot stand. 

To the begging, &c. 

Then Lucky, happily, will say, 
Poor man we hae nae room ; 

Ere all our fouks be set about, 
We wadna had your thumb. 
To the begging, &c. 

Then, well I wat, goodwife, I '11 say, 

Ise no seek near the fire ; 
Let me but rest my weary banes 

Behind backs at the spire. 

To the begging, &c. 

I '11 seek but bree out of the pot, 
Frae 'mang your boiling kail, 

To be my supper brose ; for I 
Mysell hae cap and meal. 

To the begging, &c. 

Hout ay, poor man, come ben your wa', 

The gossip syne will say ; 
We '11 ca' a wedge to make you room, 

'T has been a cauldriff day. 

To the begging, &c. 



To the Begging we will Go. 291 

When at the fire I 'm set a wee, 

Then I '11 begin and sing, 
And do my best to gar them gauff 

All round about the ring. 

To the begging, &c. 

I '11 pick up all the merry tales, 

That I hear anywhere ; 
And all the news of town and land, 

And,- oh, I '11 tell them clair. 
To the begging, &c. 

When the goodwife begins to rise, 

And ready mak the kail, 
Then I '11 bang out my beggar dish, 

And stap it fou of meal. 

To the begging, &c. 

Then, maybe, the goodwife will say, 

Poor man, let be your meal; 
Ye 're welcome to your brose the night, 

And to your bread and kail. 
To the begging, &c 

And then I will be sure to pray, 

To haud them all their heal, 
And wish that never they nor theirs 

Want either milk or meal. 

To the begging, &c. 



292 Songs. 

But then I '11 never mind when the 
Goodman to labour cries ; 

The thivel on the pottage pan 
Shall strike my hour to rise. 
To the begging, &c. 

And when I 'm tursing at my pocks, 
If the goodwife shall say, 

Stay still, and get your morning meal ; 
What maks you haste away 1 
To the begging, &c. 

Oh, then, what bonny words I '11 gie, 
And roose her out of wit, 

And pray, as lang as I do gang, 
That still she there may sit. 
To the begging, &c. 

When I of any wedding hear, 

I '11 cast me to be there, 
And pray my hearty benison 

Upon the winsome pair. 

To the begging, &c. 

Then, with my cap into one hand, 

My hat into the other, 
Wherever foulk are drinking bauld, 

I will go bobbing thither. 

To the begging, &c. 



To the Begging we will Go. 293 

Then I will to the minstrels say, 

For they are never scant, 
With leave of the good company, 

Play me the Beggar 's Rant. 
To the begging. &c. 

Then I will wallop out a dance, 

Or tell some merry tale, 
Till some good fellow in my dish 

Turn o'er the stoup and ale. 
To the begging, &c. 

Then I will drink their healths about, 

And wish them a' good heal, 
And pray, they never want enough, 

Nor yet a heart to deal. 

To the begging, &c. 

But I am o'er lang frae my trade, 

If things should answer sae ; 
'Tis time that I were at the gate, 

And tursing up the brae. 

To the begging, &c. 

If things shall answer to my scheme, 

I '11 come again and tell ; 
But if I hae mistane my trade, 

Ise keep it to mysell. 

To the begging, &c. 



294 Songs. 



WOO'D AND MARRIED AND A'. 

Woo'd and married and a', 

Married and woo'd and a' ; 
The dandilly toast of the parish 

Is woo'd and married and a'. 
The wooers will now ride thinner, 

And by, when they wonted to ca' ; 
Tis needless to speer for the lassie, 

That 's woo'd and married and a'. 

The girss had na freedom of growing, 

As lang as she wasna awa', 
Nor in the town could there be stowing 

For wooers that wanted to ca\ 
For drinking, and dancing, and brulyies, 

And boxing and shaking of fa's, 
The town was for ever in tulyies ; 

But now the lassie 's awa'. 

But had they but ken'd her as I did, 

Their errand it wad hae been sraa' ; 
She neither kent spinning nor carding, 

Nor brewing nor baking ava\ 
But wooers ran all mad upon her, 

Because she was bonny and braw, 
And sae I dread will be seen on her, 

When she 's by hand, and awa'. 



Woo 'd and Married and a\ 295 

He '11 roose her but sma' that has married her, 

Now when he 's gotten her a', 
And wish, I fear, he had miscarry' d her, 

Tocher and ribbons and a'. 
For her art it lay all in her dressing ; 

But gin her braws ance were awa', 
I fear she '11 turn out of the fashion, 

And knit up her moggans with straw. 

For yesterday I yeed to see her, 

And O she was wonderous braw, 
Yet she cried to her husband to gie her 

An ell of red ribbons or twa. 
He up, and he set down beside her 

A reel, and a wheelie to ca' ; 
She said, Was he this gate to guide her % 

And out at the door and awa'. 

Her neist road was hame till her mither, 

Who speer'd at her now, How was a'; 
She says till her, Was 't for nae ither 

That I was married awa', 
But gae and sit down to a wheelie, 

And at it baith night and day ca', 
And hae the yarn reel'd by a cheelie, 

That ever was crying to draw % 

Her mither says till her, Hegh, lassie, 

He 's wisest, I fear, of the twa ; 
Ye '11 hae little to put in the bassie, 

Gin ye be backward to draw. 



296 Songs. 

Tis now ye should work like a tyger, 
And at it baith wallop and ca', 

As lang 's ye hae youthhead and vigour, 
And little anes and debt are awa\ 

Sae swythe awa' hame to your hadding, 

Mair fool than when ye came awa' ; 
Ye maunna now keep ilka wedding, 

Nor gae sae clean-finger' d and braw ; 
But mind with a neiper you 're yoked, 

And that ye your end o't maun draw, 
Or else ye deserve to be dock'd ; 

Sae that is an answer for a'. 

Young luckie now finds hersell nidder'd, 

And wist na well what get to ca'; 
But with hersell even consider'd, 

That hamewith were better to draw, 
And e'en tak her chance of her landing, 

However the matter might fa'; 
Fouk need not on frets to be standing, 

That 's woo'd and married and a'. 



What A Us the Lasses at Me ? 297 

WHAT AILS THE LASSES AT ME? 

To the Ttme> "An? the Kirk wad lat me be." 

I am a batchelor winsome, 

A farmer by rank and degree, 
And few I see gang out mair handsome, 

To kirk or to market than me : 
I have outsight, and insight, and credit, 

And from any eelist I 'm free ; 
I 'm well enough boarded and bedded, — 

And what ails the lasses at me 1 

My boughts of good store are no scanty : 

My byres are well stocked with kye ; 
Of meal in my girnals is plenty, 

And twa or three easements forby. 
A horse to ride out when they 're weary, 

And cock with the best they can see, 
And then be ca'd dawty and deary : 

I fairely what ails them at me ! 

Behind backs, afore fouk, I 've woo'd them, 
An' all the gates o't that I ken ; 

And when they leugh on me, I trow'd them, 
And thought I had won : but what then 1 

When I speak of matters they grumble, 
Nor are condescending and free ; 

But at my proposals aye stumble : 

I wonder what ails them at me ! 

2 o 



298 Sojtgs 



I Ve tried them baith Highland and Lowland, 

Where I a good bargain could see ; 
But nane of them found I would fall in, 

Or say they wad buckle with me. 
With jouks and with scrapes IVe address'd them, 

Been with them baith modest and free, 
But whatever way I caress' d them, 

There 's something still ails them at me. 

Oh, if I but ken'd how to gain them ! 

How fond of the knack wad I be ; 
Or what an address could obtain them, 

It should be twice welcome to me : 
If kissing and dawting would please them, 

That trade I should drive till I die ; 
But however I study to ease them, 

They 've still some exception at me. 

There's wratacks, and cripples, and cranshacks, 

And all the wandoghts that I ken, 
No sooner they speak to the wenches, 

But they are ta'en far enough ben ; 
But when I speak to them that 's stately, 

I find them aye ta'en wi' the gee, 
And get the denial right flatly : 

What think ye can ail them at me 1 

I have yet but ae ofier to make them, 
If they would but hearken to me , 

And that is, I 'm willing to take them, 
If thev their consent wad but gie. 



Billet, by Jeany Gradden. 299 

Let her that's content write a billet, 

And get it transmitted to me ; 
I hereby engage to fulfil it, 

Tho' cripple — tho' blind she sud be. 



BILLET, BY JEANY GRADDEN. 

Dear batchelor, I 've read your billet, 

Your strait and your hardships I see, 
And tell you, it shall be fulfilled, 

Tho' it were by none ither but me. 
These forty years I've been neglected, 

And nane has had pity on me ; 
Such offers should not be rejected, 

Whoever the offerer be. 



For beauty, I lay no claim to it, 

Or maybe I had been away; 
Tho' tocher or kindred could do it, 

I have no pretensions to thae. 
The most I can say, I 'm a woman, 

And that I a wife want to be ; 
And I '11 tak exception at no man 

That 's willing to tak nane at me. 



300 Songs, 

And now I think I may be cocky, 

Since fortune has smurtl'd on me ; 
I 'm Jeany, and ye shall be Jockie, 

'Tis right we together sud be ; 
For nane o' us cud find a marrow, 

So sadly forfairn were we ; 
Fouk sud no at anything tarrow, 

Whose chance look'd naething to be. 

On Tuesday, speer for Jeany Gradden, 

When I in my pens mean to be, 
Just at the sign of the Old Maiden, 

Where ye shall be sure to meet me. 
Bring with you the priest for the wedding, 

That all things then ended may be ; 
And we '11 close the whole with the bedding- 

And wha '11 be sae merry as we ? 

A cripple I 'm not, ye foresta' me, 

Tho' lame of a hand that I be ; 
Nor blind is there reason to ca' me, 

Although I see but with ae ee. 
But I 'm just the chap that you wanted, 

So tightly our state doth agree ; 
For nane wad hae you, ye have granted., 

As few, I confess, wad hae me ! ' 




GLOSSARY. 



Ablins, perhaps. 

Ae-fauld, single ; sincere. 

Airth, quarter of the heaven ; point of the compass. 

Amry, a press for the daily provision of a family, 

Amshach, misfortune. 

Anoner, under. 

Anter, to walk ; to wander ; to chance. 

Antercast, a mischance. 

Ase, ashes. 

Asteer, in confusion ; bustling. 

A try, grinning ; angry. 

Auld, old ; unreasonable. 

Aumed -leather, leather imbued with alum. 

Averins, cloud-berries, rubus chamsemorus. 



Baddord, low raillery. 

Bang, (e.g.,) in a bang, at once ; suddenly. 

Bangster, a braggart or bully. 

Bannock, bread thicker than a cake, and not so thoroughly 

toasted. 
Bardach, stout ; fearless ; positive. 
Bassie, a large dish for holding meal. 
Baw-waw of her eye, asquint. 
Beal, to suppurate ; to swell with pain, 
Beet, to keep up ; cherish. 
Belyve, immediately. 



302 Glossary. 



Benew, beneath, below. 

Benison, benediction. 

Bickered, fought ; contended. 

Bield, shelter ; defence. 

Birn, burden. 

Birns, roots of burnt heath, or rather, the stronger stems of 

the heath that remain after the smaller twigs are gone. 
Birse, to bruise ; to push or drive. 
Bit and baid, meat and clothes. 
Blate, bashful. 

Bluddert, disfigured with weeping. 
Bob, taunt; reproach. 
Bobby, grandfather. 
Bode, proffer. 

Boot, choice ; help ; must ; behoved. 
Boss, empty ; hungry ; poor. 
Bout, to leap ; jump ; a turn. 
Bout-gates, by-ways. 
Bown, to make ready. 
Brattle, to make a clattering noise. 
Browden, intent upon ; set upon. 
Browst, brewing ; consequence of one's bad conduct. 
Bught, or boucht, a small pen in which ewes are milked. 
Buik, courtesied ; from baik, to courtesy. 
Bich iements, armour ;. habiliments ; clothing of any kind. 
Bumbazed, stupified. 
Burrached, inclosed. 
Bursen-belch, a fat, pursy fellow. 
But, without. 
Butwards, towards the outer part of a room ; opposed to 

Seawards. 

Cabrach, rapacious. 

Cairn, or Cairn-a-mount, a high ridge of the Grampians, 

over which a public road passes (between Fettercairn 

and Deeside. ) 
Callan, a stripling. 
Camotvyne, camomile. 



Glossary. 303 



Conn, skill ; ability. 

Cannes-braid, the breadth of a coarse cloth, {canvas,) on 
which grain is winnowed. 

Canny, cautious ; beneficial ; fortunate ; endowed with ma- 
gical skill. 

Capernoited, opinionative ; irritable ; peevish. 

Care-bed-lair, in a disconsolate situation, — q.d., she lay in 
the bed of care. 

Cast a clod betzveen folks, to widen the breach between them. 

Castings, cast-off clothes. 

Cauld bark, to ly in the cattld bark, is to be dead. 

Cants, summer cauts, a tremulous appearance near the sur- 
face of the earth in warm sunshine. 

Cavel, chance. 

Chandler chaffed, lean visaged. 

Chap and choice, great variety. 

Chaw fause, to suffer. 

Circu7?tveen, to circumvent. 

Clanght, a hold. 

Claw one's back, to encourage one. 

Clough, rugged ascent. 

Clung, lank ; empty. 

Cocker tip, to cheer ; encourage. 

Collyshangy, uproar. 

Confeerin\ consonant. 

Corsy-belly, an infant's first shirt, open before. 

Cour, to recover. 

Couthy, agreeable ; pleasing ; familiar. 

Cow, bush ; heather cow, a bush of heath. 

Crack, to chat familiarly. 

Cranshacks, crooked, distorted persons. 

Crap and root, wholly ; entirely. 

Craw, to pluck a craw, to pick a quarrel. 

Creak of day, the first appearance of day; dawn. 

Creeze, crisis. 

Cuddum, accustom ; from coutume — French. 

Cunimer, a gossip; applied to a female as a term of con- 
tempt. 



304 Glossary. 



Curcuddoch, sitting close together. 
Curfuffled, discomposed ; dishevelled. 
Cushlemushle, earnest and continued muttering. 
Cttt-pock, the stomach. 
Cutties, spoons, especially with short handles. 

Dacker, to search for stolen goods. 

Daffery, romping; thoughtlessness. 

Daft, very merry ; also mad. 

Dainta, no matter ; it does not signify. 

Damished, stupified. 

Dawtie, a favourite ; a darling. 

Day nor doer, (improperly door,) to know neither the time 

nor agent of an action ; to be altogether ignorant. 
Deave, to stun with noise ; to deafen. » 

Dele, portion; ilka deal, every bit. — Wynton. Every del. — 

Chaucer. 
Dey, a woman who has the charge of a dairy. 
Dibberderry, confused debate. 
Dightings, the refuse. • 
Ding, to drive ; to beat ; to excel. 
Dilp or Da, a tawdry hussey. 
Dird, a knock. 

Disjune, breakfast, (Fr. dejeuner.) 
Docker, tail ; work ; struggle. 
Doer, an agent, or man of business. 
Doited, stupid; confused. 
Dool, sorrow ; dole. 
Dort, sullen humour. 
Douff, dull. 

Dow, to decline in health ; to thrive ; to flourish ; to be able, 
Dram, cool ; indifferent. 
Dridder, dread. 
Dree, to undergo ; suffer. 
Driegh, slow. 

Drousty, an alehouse once in Lochlee. 
Duds, ragged clothes. 
Dung, driven ; discouraged. 



Glossary. 305 



Dwaum, faintness ; sickness. 
Dweble, weak and yielding. 

Earnblitter, the snipe. 

Eek, addition. 

Eelist, deformity ; what offends the eye. 

Eery, fearful. 

Eild, any period of life ; old age. 

Eith, easy. 

Elderen, elderly. 

Elf-arrow, a flint arrow-head, ignorantly attributed to the 

fairies. 
Ergh, timorous. 
Etnagh-berries, juniper-berries. 
Ettle, to attempt. 

Fa\ fall ; rent. 

Faik, to fail ; to stop. 

Fairley, a wonder. 

Fan, when. 

Fat, what. 

Faut, want ; hunger. 

Fead, feud ; quarrel. 

Feal, turf. 

Feam, to foam with rage. 

Feckey, gaudy. 

Feckless, weak. 

Feckly, for the most part. 

Feerforfeer, every way equal. 

Fell, to befal. 

Fesh, to bring ; fuish, brought ; allied to fetch. 

Fettle, eg., her tongue tint fettle ; her tongue lost the faculty 

of speech. 
Fireflaught, silent, or sheet lightning. 
Fix-fax, hurry ; the middle of any business. 
Flaughtbred, at full length ; eagerly. 
Flaughts, handfuls. 

2 P 



306 Glossary. 



Flaviana, the name of the district in which Ross lays the 
scene of his poem, derived, as he himself says, "from 
yellow sands that trindled down" the river. 

Flet, scolded; from to flyte, to scold. 

Flightered, pinioned. 

Floaning, indiscreetly showing fondness. 

Floughirous, frightful. 

Forbears, predecessors. 

Foresta\ understand. 

Forfairn, old fashioned ; also forlorn. 

Forgather, to meet or come together. 

Forhow, to forsake. 

Forspeak, to speak for. 

Forthersome, forward. 

Foul, evil, or ill. 

Fousome, fulsome. 

Foutk, a-foutk, plenty. 

Fra ''at, or frathat, a contraction of /or all that. 

Fremmit, strangers. 

Fry, a disturbance ; tumult ; fracas. 

Fuish, fetched. 

Fum, whom. 

Fumper, to sob ; to mutter ; to attempt to speak. 

Fusion, bodily strength ; sap ; more properly foyson. 

Fusomever, howsomever. 

Fupshaft, whip-shaft ; whip-handle. 

Fusle, whistle. 

Fyke, a bustle about a trifle. 



Ga\ a grudge. 

Gain, going. 

Gainest, nearest. 

Gangrel, beginning to walk, (applied to a child.) 

Gank, an unexpected trouble. 

Gantry, a frame for ale-barrels. 

Gar, to cause ; to force ; to oblige. 

Gardies, the arms. 

Gatelins, the way to. 



Glossary. 307 



Gauff, a loud laugh. 

Gawd— Come out afore the gawd, come forward and show 

yourself. Gawd is the same with goad. 
Gear, goods. 
Gecked, trifled with. 

Geet, contemptuous designation of a child. 
Gelore, plenty. 
Gin, if; against. 

Gizzen, to become dry ; to shrink through drought. 
Glack, a snatch. 
Glaid, kite. 

Gleg, quick ; clever ; brisk. 
Glegly, quickly. 
Glenting, glancing. 

Gloff, the shock felt in plunging into water. 
Gnap, a bite ; mouthful ; affected speech. 
Gouk, goukit, fool ; foolish ; silly ; from gouk, the cuckoo. 
Gousty, frightful j ghastly ; dreary. 
Gowan, daisy. 

Gramercy, great mercy ; thanks. 
Gree, vogue ; fame ; also tinge, dye. 
Green, to long. 
Greet, to weep. 
Gryt, great ; intimate. 
Gudeman, husband ; master of a family. 
Gueeds, goods. 
Guideship, usage. 

Gully, a large knife ; to guide the gully, to behave cautiously. 
Gut and ga\ the whole contents of the stomach. 

Habbie* contraction or diminutive of Halbert. 

Hadd, to hold. 

Hafet, half-head ; the side of the head. 

* The Habbie referred to by Dr Beattie and Ross was Habbie Siin- 
son, piper of Kilbarchan, of whom Robert Sempill, in celebrating his 
deeds, says — 

" At Clark-plays, when he wont to come, 
His pipe play'd trimly to the drum , 



308 Glossary. 



Haining, what is saved by frugality ; grass protected. 

Halie, holy. 

HallacKd, crazy ; foolish. 

Hallins, half-way ; partly. 

Hailumly, for certain. 

Hairship, plundering by armed force. 

Hamphis 'd, surrounded. 

Hamstram, difficulty. 

Havins, behaviour. 

Haw, ill coloured. 

Heal, health ; to conceal. 

Hearkening, encouragement. 

Heary, a conjugal appellation, equivalent to my dear. (Hear 

Heeze, help ; addition to. [ye ?) 

Hellier, a half-year. 

Herry, to rob ; to pillage. 

Hesp, a certain quantity of yarn ; to make a ravelled hesp, to 

put a thing in confusion. 
Hint, opportunity. 

Hippen, a cloth for wrapping about the kips of an infant. 
Hireship, service ; the place of a servant. 
Hirple, to walk like one lame. 
Hood and bells, the fool's cap. 

Host, cough ; without a host, without delay or reluctance. 
Howm, hollow ground. 
Hulgy-back, hump-back. 
Hunker down, to squat. 

Ichie nor ochie, nothing ; I cannot hear ichie nor ochie, I can- 
not hear anything. 
Ilka, every ; each. 
Ingle, fire. 
Input, share in a contribution ; aid. 

Like bikes of bees he gart it bum, 

And tuned his reed ; 
Now all our pipers may sing dum, 
Sin Habbie's dead." 
Simson died in the beginning of the seventeenth century, and a statue 
was placed in a niche of the town steeple to his honour in 1822. 



Glossary. 309 



Jamph, to make game of; to sneer at. 

Jampher, a mocker ; a scoffer. 

Jee, to stir. 

Jenkins's hen, to die like; to die unmarried. 

Jimp, scanty; slender. 

Jizzen-bed, child-bed. To be in jizzen, to lie in. 

Jo, a sweetheart or lover. 

Jot, work ; business. 

Junny, to jog with the elbow. 

Kaird, a gypsy ; a tinker ; a sturdy beggar. 

Keek, a linen dress for the head and neck. 

Keist, cast ; threw. 

Kemp, to work for a wager, (a harvest phrase. ) 

Kent, a shepherd's long staff. 

Kettrin, Highland cattle-stealers. 

Kibble, strong and active. 

Kile, a chance ; from cavil, allotment. 

Kissing-strings, ribbons tied under the chin. 

Kittle, difficult ; intricate. 

Kneif, active ; alert. 

Kniblock, a small round stone or clod. 

Kirch, kerchief; woman's head-dress. 

Kyle, a chance. 

Kythe, to appear in one's true character. 

Lack, to slight ; to undervalue. 

Laids, loads. 

Lair, to sink in a bog or mire. 

Laith, unwilling ; reluctant. 

Lands of leal, the state of the blessed. 

Lawty, loyalty ; truth. 

Leal, sound ; honest ; loyal. 

Learn, to shine. 

Leash, freedom. Gie the leash, give freedom. 

Leed, or leid, a song ; language. Ger. lied. 

Letcgh, laughed. 

Lewdring, moving heavily. 



3IO Glossary. 



Liefu-lane, quite alone* 

Lift, the sky. 

Linking, walking smartly. 

Lippen, expect ; depend upon ; trust to. 

Lilt, to dye ; tinge. 

Loof, the palm of the hand. 

L.ook like Watty to the worm, to look confused. 

Loor, rather ; comparative of lief, willing ; liefer, Chaucer ; 
also lever. — Romance of the Rose. 

Low, flame. 

Lowan, burning; parching. 

Lowrie, or Tod Lowrie, the fox. 

Lucky, adv., too much; as a subst. noun, it signifies an el- 
derly woman ; often the mistress of an alehouse. 

Lyn, a lake, or piece of standing water ; also a cascade. 

Lythe, a warm shelter. 

Maik, a match. 

Mailen, or mailing, rent ; taxes. 

Mail-payer, a tenant. 

Maks na, it does not matter. 

Mammy, mother ; nurse. 

Mang, to become frantic. 

Mansworn, perjured. 

A/at, may. 

Maughtless, feeble ; powerless. 

Maughts, strength ; ability. 

Maughty, powerful. 

Maukin, a hare. 

Mazerment, confusion ; amazement. 

Meethness, extreme heat. In some parts, soft weather. 

Meith, a sign or token ; might, aux. v. 

Meltet, a meal. 

Mense, propriety. 

Midden, dunghill. 

Midlert, middle earth ; as between sea and sky. 

Milkness, the produce of the dairy. 

Minny, mother. 



Glossary. 3 1 1 



Mirk, dark. 

Mistdn, mistaken. 

Mister, necessity ; want of food. 

Mither, mother. 

Mot, eminence, rising ground. 

Mouband, to mention ; to articulate. 

Mows, jest. 

Naip, highest part ; ridge of the roof. 
Neaty, very ; identical ; mere. 
Neiper, neighbour; partner. 
Newed, oppressed ; kept under. 
Niddered, kept in ; straitened. 
Nout, nolt ; black cattle. 

• 
Onbeast, a monster ; a wild or ravenous animal. 
Outly, fully. 
Outred, to finish. 

Outsight and insight, goods without and within doors. 
Out-throw, throughout; altogether. 
Oye, grandson. 

Paid, path. 

Paik, stroke ; to gie him his paiks, to beat him soundly. 

Panged, crammed. 

Penny, to fare. 

Penny-stane, a flat stone used as a quoit. 

Perconon, (or per xunnance,) condition. 

Perqueer, distinct. 

Pettle, a stick with which the ploughman clears away the 
earth that sticks to the plough. 

Pikes, short withered heath. 

Pingling, struggling ; to do a thing wV a pingle, is to do it 
with great difficulty. 

Plack, third part of an English penny. 

Plantane, plantain ; Plantago lanceolata, called healing- 
blade. 

Pout, a young partridge ; a young girl. 



312 Glossary. 



Pow, to pull ; to pluck. 

Premunire, contempt of government ; trouble ; confusion. 

Priest, to be one^s priest, to kill him. 

Propine, a present ; properly drink-money. 

Protty, handsome ; courageous. 

Put and row, with difficulty ; cast and rolling, as a stone 

reaching the goal by both these means. 
Put till, to examine. 

Queets, ankles. 

Quittance, acquittance ; account. 

Rackligencc % accident, or chance. 

Raff, plenty ; abundance. 

Raip, rope ; mak my test ''ment in a raip, be hanged. 

Rair, a cry ; roar. 

Raith, a quarter of a year. 

Rake, a swift pace. 

Rampage, to speak and act furiously. 

Rander, order. 

Rantree, the mountain-ash ; rowan-tree ; roden-tree. 

Rashen, made of rushes. 

Ream, cream. 

Reed, lest. 

Reemish, a rumbling noise. 

Reifing, robbing ; plundering ; stealing. 

Roosed, praised. 

Roup, hoarseness. 

Rumgumption, common sense. 

Rutner, noise ; outcry. 

Sain, to bless. 

Sairing, to look your sairing, to look your fill. 

Sakeless, harmless ; innocent. 

Sang, song. 

Sareless, tasteless. 

Sarked, provided with shirts or shifts. 

Saught, ease ; quiet- 



Glossary. 3 1 3 



Scaff, food of any kind. 

Schoop, shaped, (used both by Chaucer and Spenser.) 

Sconfice, to stifle. 

Scouth, freedom of conversation. 

Scrabs, stumps of heath or roots. 

Screak of day, break of day. 

Scrimp, scanty ; narrow. 

Seelful, pleasant. 

Sevitia, the Latin name, signifying cruelty or fierceness, that 
Ross gives to the country of the Kettrin, "whose 
nature," says our author, " to their country gave its 
name." Through a typographical error, this word was 
made Savilia in the first edition, which, although cor- 
rected in the second, was still perpetuated in most of 
the subsequent editions. 

Setting, becoming ; graceful ; it sets him, it becomes him. 

Sharger, a weakly child. 

Sheal, a hut for herdsmen or shepherds. 

Shoot by, to put off ; delay. 

Shot, to come shot, to come speed ; to advance. 

Showd, to waddle in going. 

Sib, akin. 

Sin, or syn, since. 

Sinacle, a grain ; a small quantity. 

Sinsyne, since. 

Skeigh, fearful ; shy. 

Skelt, having the seams unripped. 

Skonner, excessive disgust. 

Skreed, a list. 

Sloken, to quench. 

Smearless, unhandy ; insipid. 

Smergh, marrow ; vigour of mind or body. 

Smervy, savoury. 

Smirtle, s?mirtle, smile. 

Smore, to smother. 

Snack, quick in action or apprehension, 

Snib, smart stroke. 

Snood, fillet for young women's hair. 

2 Q 



314 Glossary. 



Some, somewhat. 

Sonsie, well-conditioned ; pleasant. 

Soudland, southern; of the southern country. 

Sough, an indistinct sound, as of wind through a forest, or of 

the waves of the sea. 
Soupit, spent : exhausted ; heartless. 
Speer, to ask ; inquire. 

Spire, a partition between the fire and the door. 
Squire, esquire ; landed proprietor ; pronounced square. 
Stanchgirss, yarrow or milfoil, used to stanch bleeding. 
Stend, to spring ; to walk with long steps. 
Stent, a task. 
Steven, voice. 
Stirrah, a stout boy. 
Stivage, stout ; fit for work. 
Stound, in a stound, in haste. 
Stour, dust in motion ; trouble ; vexation. 
Strapping, tall and handsome. 
Strype, a rill of water. 
Sturt, trouble ; wrath. 
Styth, dead. 

Summer-sod, summer shower. 
Stinks, seats made of turf. 
Sussie, hesitation; care. (Souci, French.) 
Swack, limber; pliant. 
Swage, to quiet ; assuage. 
Swarf, to swoon. 
Swavered, walked wearily. 
Swayled, swaddled. 
Sweer, loth ; lazy. 
Swidder, doubt, 
Swippert, sudden. 
Swythe, be gone ! 
Synle, seldom. 
Syne, afterwards; then. 
Syte, to dree the syte, to suffer the punishment. 



Tabetless, without strength. 



Glossary. 3 1 5 



Taiken, token. 

Tarrow, to loathe ; refuse. 

Tarveal, fatigue, from travail. 

Tauld, told. 

Teehe, a derisive laugh. 

Tenement, house ; building of several apartments. 

Thoughty, a little. 

Thout, a sob. 

Thram, to thrive. 

Thrang, a throng ; intimacy. 

Threap, a false allegation ; a dispute, 

Thrimle, to wrestle ; to fumble. 

Thry, or thrawart, bad ; cross. 

Thumb, to wipe with the thumb ; to ascertain the smooth - 

Tint, account of; tidings. [ness of. 

Tint, lost. 

Tit, a sudden pull ; a twitch. 

Toom-handed, empty-handed. 

Toumon, a twelvemonth. 

Tours, turfs ; to tour, to speed. 

Trantlims, armour; movables. 

Trig, neat ; trim. 

Truffs, turfs. 

Tryst, an appointment. 

Tulyie, a quarrel ; a skirmish. 

Turner, two pennies Scots, equivalent to a bodk. 

Tutry, tutelage ; tender care for an infant. 

Tweesh, between. 

Twine, a turn of fortune. 

Tyne, to lose. 

Tyte, direct ; straight. 



Ugertfii, squeamish. 
Unforsained, undeserved, 
Upo\ upon. 
Urluch, silly -looking. 

Vively, clearly. 



3 16 Glossary. 



Vogie, or vokie, vain ; cheerful. 
Vousty, boastful. 

Wanchancy, unlucky. 

Wad, to pledge. 

Wale, choice ; preference. 

Waith, raiment ; a woman's plaid. 

Wandought, puny. 

Wanrest, inquietude ; cause of inquietude 

Ward and warsel, security for ; pledge. 

Ware, to bestow ; waird, bestowed. 

Weers, fears ; to have weers, to be apprehensive. 

Whittle, a knife. 

Warple, to be intertwined, as the arms of children in play. 

Widdershins, what grows or turns in a direction opposite to 

the course of the sun. 
Whilie, a short time ; a little while. 
Wiss, a wish. 
Will, bewildered. 
Wilsome, lonely; wild. 
Wimpled, intricate. 

Windle-strae, a withered stalk of grass. 
Wirry-cow, any bugbear ; the devil. 
Wintacks, dwarfs. 

Wyne and onwyne, to the right and left hand ; everywhere, 
Wyte, blame. 

Wrangous, wrongful ; unjust ; improper, 
Wttd, mad ; furious. 

Yamer, shout ; clamour. 

Yap, with a keen appetite. 

Yaply, eagerly; greedily. 

Yarring, snarling ; captious ; troublesome. i 

Yeed, went. 

Yoked, to engage in business with vigour. 

Yont, or youp, scream. 



Ballantyiie, Rohsrts, &> Co., Printers, Edinburgh, 












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